


Alone

by Lost_And_Longing



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Peter Parker, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Peter, Loneliness, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Has A Heart, but really when doesn't he
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11788317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lost_And_Longing/pseuds/Lost_And_Longing
Summary: Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.- Stephen KingAfter four months with no contact between him and Mr. Stark, Peter finally comes to a conclusion he should have come to much, much earlier.Basically, I'm very upset as to how Peter was treated by Happy and Tony in the beginning of the movie.





	1. Chapter 1

Peter stared down at his phone in disgust. 

It had been several months since Vulture and the invitation to join the Avengers, which meant it was early January. Ever since he'd refused Mr. Stark's offer, there'd been radio silence from both him and Happy. Peter was completely fine with this, of course. Really, he was...

...not. 

He flopped down onto his bed, unable to prevent his lip curling upwards in disgust as he slowly, painfully scrolled through the dozens of unanswered texts he'd sent Happy just a few months before. Just looking at them made him want to curl up and die in a hole. No wonder Happy hadn't answered him or taken him seriously when he'd been in trouble! No wonder Mr. Stark thought he was an immature kid incapable of taking care of himself! Just four months had Peter cringing in agreement. He'd put a whole new definition to double-texting. 

Now, he stared not just at the unanswered texts, but at the reply bar. 

Although initially it had simply slipped Peter's mind to contact Happy, eventually forgetfulness had turned into decisiveness- had turned into Peter choosing not to contact Happy. Or Mr. Stark. And, though originally it had been out of shame, that shame had turned into anger and hurt as the months passed by with neither of them even attempting to make contact with him. He knew it was partially because of shame and pain that he was angry, but it was like an itch under his skin, burning to get out. Every time he looked at his phone and saw Happy's contact, he remembered being unnoticed by Happy- or, more accurately, being unwanted.

And, yeah, Peter understood that some random adult who didn't really know him had no reason to answer Peter's constant texts. That was why he'd stopped sending them. But...would it have killed Happy to answer  _once?_ Even just to explain to him that he wasn't actually wanted by Mr. Stark, instead of having him be lead on for months? Would it have killed Happy to act like a decent human being who actually cared?

Peter tightened his grip around his phone and closed his eyes, pain mingled with anger and loneliness rising up in him. Didn't they understand? Mr. Stark had been his idol. And yes,he knew that Mr. Stark had no obligation to be kind. After all, Peter was some unknown kid with super-powers who screwed up more than he helped. But still...Peter couldn't help but wish he would've cared, even just a little bit.

Instead, he'd basically called Peter a nobody and taken his suit. It had taken a caved-in building and a plane crash for Peter to get it back. To get even some acknowledgement. And now...nothing. Not even one word. Nothing - not when he'd nearly died on patrol, not when he'd almost gotten kicked off the decathlon team, not when he'd skipped three days of school because of a broken rib. 

Nothing. 

Peter clicked out of the conversation and turned off his phone. It had been four months since he'd last spoken to either of them. That thought shouldn't have weighed so heavily on him, but it did. Somewhere in the back of his teenage brain, he'd wanted them to care about him at least a fraction of the amount he cared about them. He'd wanted Mr. Stark to ask him about his day, to get concerned when he was injured- he even would've been okay if Mr. Stark had hit on his aunt while doing it, as long as he'd cared just the smallest bit about Peter. But...nothing. 

He sighed. He'd tried to put it off, but at this point he had to face it. Happy and Mr. Stark simply didn't care. At all. To them, he was a weapon to be used when needed, an annoying kid to be ignored when not. He was not a teammate. He was not a coworker. And he was not - God forbid -a friend. He was unwanted by them. He was not needed, or wanted, or cared about by them.

And why should he be? A part of his brain argued. Why should Iron Mancare about him, a vigilante screw-up of a hero? 

A sudden bout of anger seized him and he threw his phone against his bedroom wall as hard as he could. He winced and immediately regretted it as the phone made a sizable dent in said wall before landing on the floor and shattering. Fucking super-strength. Fucking phone. Fucking Tony Stark. Why couldn't he care about Peter?

Why... _why_ couldn't Peter just be enough?

His anger slowly abated, replaced by unadulterated pain. In the end, he couldn't blame Mr. Stark for not caring. It was hardly like humans could control whether they liked someone or not. Mr. Stark was completely blameless in this. Peter had no right to get angry at him for something that couldn't be controlled.

But that didn't mean it couldn't still hurt. 

Peter dropped his eyes to his broken phone and, with a touch of cynicism, thought it accurately represented his life. He ran a hand through his hair, biting his lip, before deciding he'd deal with it later. After all, it was midnight on a Tuesday and he had school the next morning. Instead he turned his back on the broken object and flicked his light switch off, striding back to his bed and flopping down on it with a heavy sigh.

Maybe it would be better in the morning, he tried to tell himself. Maybe he'd be able to forget this and focus on better things, like the academic decathlon event coming up this Saturday. 

Maybe. 

He rolled over onto his side and felt a sob rising up inside him. Maybe.

He doubted it, though.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the day after Peter had scrolled through his text messages to Happy and broken his phone.

School that day had been terrible. Now that he was finally home, Peter was exhausted, upset, and irritable. Part of the reason why was because his phone had refused to turn on that morning and now retained its stubborn sleep of death. Although Peter was pretty good with electronics, he didn't quite think himself ready to take apart his phone and replace or fix all the broken parts. That left him with only one other option: buying a new one. And since basically all of Peter's possessions were from garbage piles, roadside deals, and 50% off sales, one could see how buying a brand-new phone could possibly be a bit of a problem.

Peter stepped into his apartment, took a cursory look around, and sighed in relief. Aunt May wasn't there. He didn't have to try and figure out how to tell her the bad news yet.

Maybe, he thought, maybe he should just keep it from her? Although he'd miss having his phone to keep him from awkward social situations, the thought of her having to take on a bunch of overnight shifts just to pay for something he broke made guilt well inside him, and made his already down emotions get even worse. 

Peter heaved another sigh and made his way into his bedroom. He set his backpack down with a thud. His eyes darted automatically to the tiny shards of glass that now littered his floor, and the reminder made a scowl drop over his face. All it had taken was one moment of anger, and just like that - his phone was broken irreparably. 

Biting his lip, Peter decided he didn't want to think about his phone anymore. He pulled his suit down from its hiding place and quickly slipped it on. Deciding on keeping his door open - since, if he kept it closed, May might think he was trying to hide that he was on patrol - he slipped out his window and swiftly webbed up to the roof of the building. 

"Hey, Karen," he greeted once he was situated. "Got anything for me?" 

"Hello, Peter. Currently, there seems to be no criminal activity occurring." 

"Aw, that sucks," he muttered, then, realizing what he'd said, quickly recovered. "I mean, not that there isn't any crime going on- that's great! Just...I kinda wanted to get my mind off some stuff, you know?" 

The AI was silent. Peter supposed that Tony must've not programmed her to respond to emotional outbursts like his own. With a sigh, he flopped onto his back, staring up at the afternoon sky. It was early to be out patrolling seeing as most crime occurred at night, but even if there was no one to help, being outside and away from people always made Peter feel better. He thought of himself as a friendly guy, of course, but he was also an introvert. Being around people for too long was often draining. 

On the flip side, though, being alone meant he was alone in his own thoughts. Which was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid in the first place. "Karen, are you  _sure_ there are no reports or anything? Even, like, a bike being stolen or something?" 

"If a bike were currently being stolen, it would not show up on any records or in police activity." 

"So, what you're saying is that it could be happening, we just don't know?"

Without waiting for a response Peter leaped to his feet and jumped off the building, shooting a web to stop himself right before he hit the ground. He felt a grin rise to his face as he swung through town. No matter how many times he did this, the adrenaline high never grew old. 

Within the span of an hour, Peter had saved three bikes, helped an old lady cross the road, saved a drunk, middle-aged man from getting run over, and given said middle-aged man his opinion on what the man should drink next (hint: Peter had said  _nothing but water_ very, very sternly). He webbed away from the man and was about to swing up to the top of a building when Karen spoke. 

"Peter, a report just came in. There seems to be an armed robbery going on. The weapons used are high-tech guns that-"

He didn't wait to hear the rest. "I'm on it. Where is it?"

Karen gave him the address and he was over there in a flash. He swung into the bank with style, shattering the windows as he flew and tackling one of the robbers. The back of his neck prickled in warning and he threw himself to the right just in time to hear one of the high-tech guns he'd stopped Karen from telling him about go off. 

Peter picked himself up and blocked a few punches from the guy he'd tackled. His eyes darted over to the spot the gun had been fired and he winced at the smoking hole left in the floor. If that thing had hit him...

He shot a web at the man he was fighting, pinning him to the wall. He ducked beneath the next man's punch and leaped over another one's kick, sending more webbing at one of them and a kick at the other. As he'd flown in he'd quickly taken stock of the robbers. There was one more man. Where was he? 

That question was quickly answered as Peter's neck tingled again in warning and he ducked another blast. The shot missed Peter by a mile, but the other man who'd been facing Peter wasn't nearly as quick to move and was hit square in the chest. Peter watched in horror as the blast tore the man's chest cavity practically in two, sending blood and various body bits flying into Peter's face. 

For a moment he just stared at the dead man, unable to move. He couldn't tear his eyes away from- from the  _blood there was so much blood._ But the footsteps of the last man sounded closer and closer and finally Peter forced himself to turn around to face him. To the man's credit, he looked even more horrified than Peter.

"I...did I do that?" he whispered. His skin, despite being darker than Peter's, at that moment seemed almost gray. 

Peter nodded slowly. "I'm sorry." It seemed the appropriate thing to say. 

The other man's eyes grew teary. "He- he was my friend," he got out. "We- we were friends and I- I  _killed_ him! We just wanted money, we didn't wanna hurt nobody..." 

"Hey, hey, calm down," Peter said soothingly. "How about you put that gun down, okay?"

The man didn't need to be told twice. He dropped the gun like it'd burned him, staring down at it with revulsion. Something about the guns seemed familiar, but Peter pushed it into the back of his head. He'd deal with that later. 

"I killed him," he said again.

Peter stayed silent. Karen informed him that she'd called the police and that they'd be there shortly. Until then Peter needed to focus on calming this guy down. There was no telling what he'd do; grief and guilt had odd ways of manifesting. 

"Yes, you did," Peter said.

He wasn't the best at comforting people; he hoped the man wouldn't hold it against him. Then he kicked himself. The scruffy, unwashed man was a wannabe bank robber and, however reluctantly, a killer. Peter really shouldn't be worrying about what he thought of him.

"Just..." Peter hesitated. "Breathe. Come on, breathe with me. In...out." 

Although the man looked less like he was about to panic and more like he was about to go on a grief-anger bender, he obeyed. Once Peter was reasonably sure the man was calm, Peter picked up the gun himself, moving carefully and keeping his eyes on the other man in case the movement triggered opposition. But the would-be robber stayed still, so Peter slowly straightened and backed away. And then glanced down.

And stiffened.

 _Stark Industries,_ the words on the gun read. A black and white globe completed the logo. 

Peter blinked, completely stunned. He'd thought that Mr. Stark's company focused on producing clean energy used for electronics, AIs, and other such beneficial projects. Not...not weapons.

He strode quickly over to the other robbers and took their guns as well, gut sinking as all but one of them displayed the same words and globe. Words leaped to the edge of his tongue - demands of where they'd gotten them from, orders that they tell him if they had some sort of weapons deal going on - but the last robber still looked unstable. And although Peter was confident he could take the man down...well, to be honest, he felt terrible about asking such a question when the man still looked so horrified and revolted by his own actions. Peter didn't need to add any more onto that. 

Once-distant sirens sounded, and Peter heard the footsteps of the police run up to the bank. All it took was one quick glance at the man to see he was panicking once more. Peter stuck him to a pillar before things could get too out of hand, then collected the guns, vaulted up to the ceiling, and silently fled out the window. As he was technically a vigilante despite being beloved by Queens' citizens, he tried to minimize his contact with the police. He'd heard the stories about the archer-vigilante of Starling City and decided he didn't want to end up like that. 

About halfway up the outside of the bank, Peter realized he'd made a mistake. How was he supposed to climb  _and_ hold three guns at the same time? He'd been trying to keep them all in the crook of his left arm, but it wasn't working. Even as he climbed, he almost let one of them fall to the pavement forty feet below.

With a grimace Peter shot a small amount of webbing at them to bundle them up, then attached them to his back with more webbing. The added weight meant he climbed slower than usual, but it was a better alternative than letting the guns fall to the ground for the police- or worse, regular citizens- to find. 

Finally Peter reached the top of a building far enough away from the robbery to be deemed safe. He unwound the guns from his back and set them on the ground. Then he simply stared at them for several seconds.

 _Mr. Stark made these,_ he thought.  _Maybe not personally, but...he designed these guns. These guns that killed someone today. That almost killed_ me. 

Everything he'd thought he knew about Mr. Stark seemed false, suddenly. Somehow, it was different knowing that Tony Stark made a high-tech suit of armor capable of killing, and knowing that Tony Stark was involved with the production of guns that could be meted out to muggers and robber who could kill. 

He just...he'd thought Mr. Stark was better than that. 

Peter shook himself angrily. Enough of that. He'd spent far too long already bemoaning Mr. Stark's various actions and feelings (or lack of them)- he was over that, he really was. Or he should be by now, anyway.

Instead, what he needed to be thinking about was what to do with the guns now. Obviously he couldn't just leave them sitting around somewhere, and he didn't think giving them to the police or even SHIELD would be a good idea. He was tempted to hide them in his room, but the idea of having such high-power weapons in the same house as May unsettled him. What if someone found out and got her in trouble for it?

He sighed. No. As much as he hated to say it, Peter needed to contact Mr. Stark.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in: according to AO3's spellcheck, sulphur isn't a word, and neither is fangirl, but fanboy is. What even.

Tony was in the middle of working on a new Starkphone when Happy walked in, pale as a sheet. "Tony," he said, and that was all the engineer needed to know something was wrong. 

"What happened? Did the Chitauri come back? Wait, no, you wouldn't be talking to me if they had. Is it Pepper? Is she okay? Oh shit please tell me she's not-"

"Pepper's fine as far as I know," Happy said. "It's Peter." 

Tony blinked. "Peter?"

He hadn't talked to Peter in months. At first he'd thought the kid simply didn't want to talk to him (and then Pepper had broken up with him  _again_ and his company's executives had tried to sue him and Peter had completely slipped his mind), but...how long had it been since they'd last spoken? It had been months, right?

"Don't tell me he's hurt. Please don't tell me he's hurt."

When Happy didn't answer in the .5 seconds Tony gave him to, the engineer blundered on, "He's hurt, isn't he? That's why you look like that. He's hurt or- or he's-" he couldn't bring himself to finish.

 _Dammit, Tony,_ he thought.  _Look at what happens when you leave the kid to himself._

"Peter's fine, too."

But Happy still looked...well, unhappy. Tony faintly wondered how many times people had made similar puns and if Happy was as disgusted by them as Tony thought he was.

"But he...he had some things to say. There was a robbery today he stopped, and the robbers were carrying unusual guns." Happy sighed heavily. Opened his mouth, then stopped like he couldn't bring himself to say what came next.

"What was strange about the guns?" 

"They had a logo on them. Yourlogo, Tony. Peter said they left a craterin the chest of one of the robbers." 

"He killed someone?" 

Happy shook his head. "Dodged a blast from another one of the robbers. It hit the guy Peter was directly in front of." 

They were both silent for a few seconds.

"I didn't make them," Tony said quietly. "I never made any of those weapons. And after Afghanistan, I made sure my company would never produce weapons again." 

"I know, Tony. But Peter doesn't."

"You didn't tell him?" he asked incredulously. 

"It wasn't my place. If someone's going to tell him, it needs to be you."

There was another silence, then Tony nodded slowly. "Alright, I'll talk to him. Where are the weapons now?" 

"He has them. I told him he could drop them off here tonight. He's probably coming over now." 

_"Now?"_

He hadn't slept for the past day, hadn't eaten for the past two - hadn't showered for a _week -_ and now he had to convince a teenager that he was not, in fact, the weapons dealer Peter thought he was, and maybe deal with the collateral over the whole haven't-contacted-Peter-in-four-months-is-he-mad thing. This wasn't going to end well. 

 _Was_ he mad? Tony had completely forgotten about Peter for weeks on end. During the weeks he'd remembered, he'd assumed Peter didn't want to talk to him, or that Happy was taking care of him - since Peter was, of course, still bugging Happy every day with his incessant texts and would tell Happy when something went wrong. They hadn't exactly left off on the best foot, what with Peter rejecting Tony's offer to join the Avengers and all. Maybe Peter hadn't wanted anything more to do with him and was relieved Tony wasn't saying anything?

No. No. The kid had practically worshiped him. He still wanted to be around Tony. Right? 

Tony ran a hand through his (extremely greasy) hair, feeling the beginnings of an anxiety attack come on. He didn't care about the kid thatmuch - just felt responsible to keep him safe. Really. But, well, the kid waspractically genius level smart and kind of endearing and the idea of his thinking Tony was a weapons supplier didn't sit well. Not after everything Tony had been through. And the niggling doubts resurfacing about how he'd treated the kid over the past months didn't sit well, either. 

"Shit..." he muttered, pushing himself back from the chair he'd been sitting in and standing up. His vision flickered dangerously for a moment and he stumbled, catching himself on the edge of the table.

"Right...okay. I need to take a shower. His first time seeing me after four months does notneed to have me smelling like..." Tony paused and sniffed himself, then wrinkled his nose. "Rotten eggs, or something. Jeez, I hadn't thought that sulphur I was using yesterday would cling to me that much." 

Happy's face was its usual mask, but even he seemed a little disgusted. Tony walked past him and clapped him on the shoulder, instructing him to make sure Peter was entertained if he came while Tony was showering andto keep him from getting into trouble. "If he runs into Cap, get him out of there before he embarrasses himself too much while fanboying."

"Tony," Happy said again. Tony paused, turned back around, and raised an eyebrow. "Before today, he hadn't contacted me in four months. I just thought you should know that." 

 _Shit,_ he thought, but didn't say it out loud.

"Okay," he said instead and walked out of the lab, down the hallway and into his rooms.

He didn't allow himself to think about that until he was in the shower, where the desperate claws of anxiety struck into his heart once more.  _Shit,_ he thought again. Shit, he'd fucked up. He'd fucked up. He'd really fucked up. 

He'd assumed that the kid hadn't changed at all, even after taking down Vulture and declining Tony's offer. He'd assumed Peter would go back to being who he'd been before all that: the slightly annoying but endearing kid who hundred-texted Happy, got himself into innumerable scrapes, and was generally reckless and careless. But if he hadn't even contacted Happy once...

Tony lathered up his hair and rinsed before he let himself continue that train of thought. There were two options. One, Peter hated them now and had resolved to never talk to them again, unless it was of dire importance. Seeing how Peter had basically hero-worshiped Tony previously, he found the sudden change hard to believe.

Or two...he'd been waiting for Tony and Happy to reach out first.

And they hadn't. 

He could imagine what Pepper would tell him.  _Go apologize to the kid, Tony! I'm not letting you back into your lab until you've made things right again, you hear?_

Of course, Tony hadn't actually seen Pepper in person for around two months, but just the thought of the lecture he'd receive over Skype if she ever found out made Tony resolve to at least try to fix things. And, plus. After everything Tony had put him through in Germany and afterwards...the kid deserved better. 

"Boss," FRIDAY's voice came over the speakers, "Peter Parker is here now and is asking to see you." 

Tony cursed and sped up his showering. "Isn't Happy supposed to be there? Where is he?" 

"Happy is on his way to Peter now," the AI said.

Tony breathed a sigh of relief. "Alright. Okay. Good...that's good. Tell them to meet me on my floor shortly." 

"Will do." 

 

* * *

 

Peter stood in the foyer of the Avengers Compound awkwardly, still in his suit and carrying the bundle of guns. Ever since he'd called Happy up on a CVS cashier's cell _(that_ had been a memorable episode of Adventures in Spider-Man) and started towards the Avengers Compound, he'd felt like he was being led to his own death. Or at least something very nearly as uncomfortable.

Although Happy had seemed worried when Peter had called, asking if he were hurt - not what Peter had been expecting, exactly - he'd flipped out when Peter had told him the reason behind his call and told Peter to come immediately. He'd then promptly hung up. Some things never changed, at least.   
  
So now here he was. Just as out of place as he always was, and basically at Mr. Stark's mercy. After all it was hardly like Peter could convince FRIDAY to take him to an unwilling Mr. Stark. Sure, he could break into an upstairs window or something, but even still that didn't mean anyone would actually have a conversation with him.

Peter fidgeted, then at last called out, "FRIDAY?" 

"Yes, Peter?" 

"Um...I brought the, uh, stuff. Is Happy here?" Anyone would be better than Mr. Stark, even Happy. 

"Yes, he will come down shortly. I shall also notify Tony." 

"Wait no, you don't have to tell Mr. Stark, Happy's fine-" but the AI's voice had gone silent and Peter had a bad feeling she'd already started talking to the engineer. Crap. 

Several minutes passed before the elevator doors opened and Happy stepped out and came towards him, relief softening his features as he saw what Peter was holding.

"Good, you have the guns," he said in lieu of greeting.

Stung despite his efforts to tell himself it didn't matter, Peter retorted, "Hey, Happy! Nice to see you, too! You know, man, I really missed you, how've the last few months been treating you?"

Happy pursed his lips then sighed, probably wondering why Mr. Stark had ever decided to bring such an annoying kid into their lives. "Tony's showering but he'll be out shortly. We're meeting him up on the top floor."

Peter nodded, just as grim-faced as Happy, and stepped into the elevator after the older man. He'd decided to keep his mask on so he wouldn't seem so infantile and inexperienced when he talked to Mr. Stark, so as the elevator ride progressed and his heart began to speed up from his rising anxiety, Karen asked him if he was alright. 

"Yes, I'm fine," he said as lowly as he possibly could, hoping Happy wouldn't think he was going insane if he was overheard. If he had, he kept quiet.

The rest of the ride was spent in complete and utter silence until the elevator pulled to a stop and the doors opened. As Peter walked out, exiting the elevator first after Happy waved him on, he thought he heard the man mutter a, _gl_ _ad you're alright, kid. You had us worried._  But it was so quiet, and Peter so distracted, he barely noticed. Five seconds later he'd discarded the words as mere fantasy. 

As they entered the main room of the suite Peter noticed several things. Firstly, that what he'd thought was high-tech and luxurious throughout the rest of the building was nothing compared to Mr. Stark's personal rooms. Secondly, that the main room had about three different laptops set up on the table; a microwave and fridge (but nothing else) on and next to a marble counter-top; and four discarded mugs of coffee strewn about the room on different surfaces - table, table, counter, chair. 

And thirdly, that Mr. Stark was sitting on the couch holding a fifth mug and staring straight at Peter. 

To his credit, Peter only jumped about half a foot into the air. He had  _not_ expected Mr. Stark to already be there and waiting for him. Hadn't Happy said he was showering?

"Mr...Mr. Stark," he stammered out. "I...thought you were in the shower."

Definitely not the kind of first impression he'd wanted to make. Dammit, now Mr. Stark was probably regretting not forcing Happy to handle Peter himself.

"That's the thing about showers," Mr. Stark responded, running a hand through his still-wet hair, "they don't last forever."

Peter looked away, even more flustered than before and wishing more than ever that he wasn't there. He knew that Happy had probably told Mr. Stark about the logo on the guns already, and they both probably knew Peter wanted an explanation as to why Mr. Stark was making guns. At this point, though, now that he was in front of Mr. Stark, Peter wanted to do nothing but run and hide and leave the guns behind for Mr. Stark to sort out on his own. 

But apparently Mr. Stark was of a different opinion, because after a moment he said, "Happy, leave us alone."

It was not lost on Peter that the two exchanged some sort of significant glance, but what was lost to him was what, exactly, it was about. He felt his already racing heart pump even faster as different ideas about the meaning of it flashed through his mind, each more ludicrous and more terrifying than the last. Again Karen asked if he was okay; this time Peter ignored her.

Once Happy had shut the door behind him with a click, Peter gazed down at his feet and felt Mr. Stark's stare burn into him. Finally, the older man broke the silence by asking,

"Those are the guns?" 

Although Peter was tempted to give a sarcastic retort akin to what he'd given Happy, he just nodded. Waited for the other man to say something else. 

Mr. Stark didn't disappoint. "Sit down, kid."

He motioned to the couch. Rather than sit directly next to him, however, Peter walked over to a chair a few feet away and sat, still keeping his eyes away from the engineer. He knew that, with his suit on, it shouldn't really have mattered - Mr. Stark wouldn't be able to read his expression, after all - but somehow, looking straight at the man felt strangely vulnerable. Because he was determinedly looking away from Mr. Stark, however, he completely missed the hurt that briefly flashed through Tony's eyes. 

"You're...awfully quiet. Are you sure you aren't injured? You're usually talking a mile a minute when you get in here, and..." Mr. Stark trailed off. 

Peter continued to stare at the ground, but he couldn't help but feel anger begin to take root. How had Mr. Stark any right to tell Peter what was 'normal' for him when he hadn't seen Peter for four months, about half the length of their entire acquaintance?

"I'm fine, Mr. Stark." 

"Okay," the man replied, drawing out the first syllable, "if you say so. Well, um, unwrap the shooters and let's see what we have here."

Peter obliged, pulling the guns out of the constructed webbing and handing one of them to Mr. Stark.

"Right. Well...that's definitely my logo. No doubt about it. You said you pulled them off a bunch of robbers?" 

"Yeah. There were four robbers but only three of them had guns with..."

There was a silence. Peter thought about Mr. Stark's words. _T_ _hat's_   _definitely my logo._ Not 'my gun,' but 'my logo.' 

"And one of them killed someone with it?"

Peter nodded.

Mr. Stark cursed. "My name's been dragged through the mud enough already. I don't need more."

Peter wanted to get angry, but when he finally looked at Mr. Stark, he seemed...vulnerable. More vulnerable than Peter had ever seen him before. As if, somehow, this was more personal than a simple bunch of guns. From his childhood years, Peter vaguely recalled...something...about a reform, about Mr. Stark being captured in Afghanistan. But he'd been little at the time, and he couldn't remember anything in detail.

So he said, "I took them before the police got there. No one should know a thing other than the robbers and whoever they got the guns from." 

Mr. Stark's eyes widened in something close to awe, before his expression softened into relief. "Oh, thank God, kid. I don't know what I would've done if Stark Industries was known as a weapons manufacturer again."

Then, as if fearing his tone had been too real, his words too vulnerable, he hastily added on, "the PR backlash would've been a nightmare," and gave a weak chuckle.

There was another, longer, silence. Peter was about to ask if that would be all and if he could go now when Mr. Stark said, "How have you been, kid? How long's it been since we spoke last - three, four months? Has school been treating you okay?" 

"Fine, Mr. Stark." His voice was the knife's-edge between polite and distant. Anger - more at himself than at Mr. Stark - began to boil in his veins. For although he was angry at Mr. Stark for not caring about him, he was angrier at himself for not being  _good enough._

Even as he thought it, those last words echoed and echoed and made his chest ache. 

He was angry at himself for not being good enough for Mr. Stark and Happy to have cared in the first place. He was angry at himself for not having treated them better - not having been nicer, more deferential, more selfless - when they'd been around. He was angry for all the mistakes he'd made around them, angry for all the wrong words and awkward questions and teenage stupidity he'd gotten up to when he was around them. 

He was angry. And he hated it. 

He hated himself. 

"If that's all..." he said, letting the sentence trail off. He unclenched his hands, only just realizing he'd had them fisted. "Can...can I go now?" 

"Can you...kid, you just got here," Mr. Stark said, looking confused - and maybe even hurt. "You don't want me to give you the grand tour? You don't want to meet Vision, or- or Rhodey, or any of the others?"

Peter winced. He could smell all the different soaps and shampoos and conditioners the man had used in the shower and it was starting to make him nauseous. Normally it wouldn't have, but sensory overloads had a habit of creeping up on Peter at the same time as anxiety attacks, and Peter's heart was definitely racing fast enough to begin to qualify for that. 

Mr. Stark's offer was tempting. But Peter was close to panicking, and meeting Rhodes would mean spending more time with Mr. Stark and dwelling further on how  _unwanted_ he was by him, and...

"No, I have, uh, schoolwork." 

"Schoolwork." Mr. Stark sounded unconvinced.

"Yeah! I have, uh, a bunch of academic decathlon stuff to go over before our competition this Saturday, and, uh-" he wildly searched his brain for his current assignments "-a four page paper on  _A Tale of Two Cities,_ and-"

"Hold up, you're telling me you'd rather write a paper on Charles Dickens than meet the Avengers?"

Peter fidgeted awkwardly.

"Peter, what's going on?" 

"Nothing!" he said, far too quickly. "Nothing, just...I know May's been worried about all the time I spend patrolling, so I thought I'd...spend time with her tonight. You know, like a family night." 

"So call her and tell her you're with me, I'm sure she'll be fine with it. After all, being with me is much safer than, what? Throwing yourself off buildings while pursuing criminals?" 

Peter cringed. "I don't have a phone," he tried next, but he knew even as he said it that it wouldn't work.

Mr. Stark's brow furrowed. "How'd you call me, then? And that's a shitty excuse. Did you just tell the inventor of the Starkphone you don't have a phone? Because I _make_ phones. Come on, let's go find you a phone to call her with."

Peter opened his mouth to try something else - what, he didn't know, but spending time with Tony Stark was not very high on his bucket list at this point (or, more accurately, spending time with Peter Parker didn't seem very high on Mr. Stark's).

But Mr. Stark must've been able to sense what was coming, for he said, "Are you gonna give me another piss-poor excuse or can we go already?" 

Dammit,Peter thought, scowling underneath the mask. Just being around Mr. Stark made everything he'd been trying to suppress all these months come to the surface - his inadequacy, his loneliness, his shame and self-hatred and anger. He knew that the tentative trust they'd managed to build between each other had, at least to him, been severed in two. How could Peter possibly trust the man who'd given his world to him, only for it to fade to dust and cobwebs? 

But he could hardly say that to Mr. Stark. So Peter sighed, suppressed his distrust, and muttered, "Fine, let's go." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I've gotten to the point where I can't even tell if my own stuff is angsty, because literally everything I write has at least a small dose of angst in it (seriously look at my fics lol). I tried to make it as real and as in line with my first chapter as possible so...hopefully it matches your expectations.


	4. Chapter 4

Meeting the Avengers wasn't bad.

Actually, it was pretty great. Colonel Rhodes, Vision, Hawkeye, and the Black Widow were all there, the latter two there for peace talks for something Peter didn't ask about. Colonel Rhodes was just as cool as Peter had hoped: a little wobbly on still-new legs, perhaps, but cool and collected. Vision was cool as well, if a little weird, and Clint was  _amazing._ He was hilarious! And Natasha was the most  _badass_ lady he'd ever met. Ever. Seriously. 

For a while, Peter managed to forget everything as he excitedly fanboyed over his fellow spider while not-so-subtly gawking at Colonel Rhodes. He and Clint played several rounds of Mario Kart - Peter actually lost some of them, something he was decidedly unaccustomed to ever since the spider bite. Vision commented on their playing styles the entire time, occasionally sounding so much like Karen that it threw Peter off and granted Clint a win. Natasha opted in and out of playing at will, and Colonel Rhodes and Mr. Stark talked in the background in low tones that were indiscernible to everyone but Peter. 

Eventually, however, the initial adrenaline began to wear off. Peter's tiredness forced itself back in and he began to lose more and more often, which prompted Clint to quit under the pretense of 'not wanting to hurt the squirt's feelings.' After that, Clint and Natasha moved away together to talk about a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission and left Peter with only Vision. After amusing himself for several minutes with asking Vision to look various things up for him on his enormous internal database, Peter slowly began to shrink further and further into himself as he looked around and saw the four others, all perfectly happy without him, not even seeming to care that he was there. And he realized that no one there wanted him. After all, Vision was an android, Peter had just met Natasha, Clint, and Rhodes, and Mr. Stark...well. 

Peter wasn't surprised. He hadn't been holding out hope that one of the Avengers,one of a group of  _superheroes,_ would actually give a shit about him. He knew it wasn't remotely realistic. But he still...he still couldn't stop the minute drop of his heart, the newly-sealed hole that slowly gaped open anew inside his chest.

And as the pain settled in, the familiar self-hatred followed. What right did he have to be hurt? It wasn't like he could possibly expect everyone in the room to just cater to his needs. He wasn't some sort of socially cancerous person who needed constant support through an IV of attention. 

And...and it was hardly like it was something he deserved, anyway. Perhaps if Peter were more outgoing or likable or respectful or friendly, maybe then people would care. Maybe then he'd have friends. Perhaps he was the problem, after all. Not them. 

Peter slowly withdrew more and more, scooting away from Vision and clutching a pillow to his chest protectively. He'd taken off the suit before he'd gone to meet the Avengers in order to keep his identity secret, so he felt uncomfortably exposed as the bright lights burned into his eyes. Colonel Rhodes and Mr. Stark were still talking, now joking around about the military and making fun of one of the droids Mr. Stark had built. Natasha and Clint had moved on to discussing more personal things which Peter carefully tuned out of. 

After a few more seconds, Vision turned to Peter and told him that he needed to go to his room to recharge. He walked away, leaving Peter alone. 

Peter looked around a couple times, even standing up and making to walk over to one or the other of the pairs once or twice. He pasted a half-smile on his face designed to look convincing in case one of the groups should look over. But either the four Avengers didn't realize what he was doing or they just didn't care. They kept talking by themselves, kept ignoring him. 

And finally Peter decided he was done. He was done hanging onto every scrap of attention these people handed out to him. He was done waiting for other people to make him feel validated, good enough, wanted.

With one glance to make sure he wasn't being watched and another to make sure he had his suit, Peter walked out of the room. He ducked into a smaller room a little farther away, stealthily opened the window, and climbed out. He hit the ground with a soft thump. After a short pause to make sure FRIDAY wasn't going to alert Mr. Stark about his leaving, Peter sprinted across the exposed, open grass areas of the compound and into the woods, where he changed into his Spider-Man suit. 

It was nearing nine by the time he left, but Peter's vision still functioned perfectly, especially when augmented by his suit. As he slung from tree to tree, racing towards the highway that led back to Queens, Peter couldn't stop unwanted thoughts from pouring in. He couldn't stop wondering why Mr. Stark had really asked him to stay and decided bitterly that someone must've put him to it; maybe May, worried that her nephew wasn't getting out enough. But more than that...

He couldn't stop wondering why he just wasn't enough.

The word echoed inside his hollow chest, reverberating over and over and over. 

Peter slung onto a semi-truck heading back to Queens and landed roughly, slamming his head into the roof. Slightly dazed, he lay down for a moment to catch his bearings before he could continue his internal monologue.

Why washe so unwanted by everyone?

Peter shook his head and winced. No, not everyone. He had May and Ned. He had two people who cared about him. That should be enough.

Except, it wasn't. 

And he felt terrible for thinking it, like the mere thought was a betrayal, but it was true. They weren't enough. Not when he'd get himself into a fight on patrol and realize there would be no one getting him out of there but himself. Not when he'd get home after school when May was working a shift and realize he had no one who cared enough to talk to him. Not when he so badly needed advice on how to deal with his nightmares or the panic attacks he got whenever he saw a reminder of Toomes, but had no one he could talk to about it - May would worry and Ned would have no idea how to help him. 

No. He wasn't always alone, but he was lonely. 

And that was the thought that stayed with Peter the entire way home. 

 

* * *

 

Peter woke up the next morning so exhausted he opted out of a shower and just lay in bed for several more minutes, thinking about how much he wished he could sleep just a few minutes longer. But his alarm blared again, so he groaned and dragged himself out of bed. He dressed in a haze, stepping through that same fog into the kitchen to eat breakfast with May and rushing out with mere minutes to spare.  

He walked into school with a terrible case of bedhead and far later than he'd intended. He made it inside with scarcely five minutes to spare before the first bell. Usually he'd come more than twenty minutes early to hang out with Ned. As he strode through the hallways, looking for him, he glanced up briefly from the floor-

And stiffened.

His mouth started to form a greeting. It died on his tongue. Ned was talking to another guy in the year below theirs, and he was laughing, looking more open than Peter had almost ever seen him with other people. 

The hollowness in his chest gaped wider. 

Ned was talking and laughing, and he looked happierthan Peter could remember him looking for a very long time. Happier than Ned had been with Peter for months. Happier than he'd been since the spider bite - since Uncle Ben's death. 

Peter dug his nails into his flesh, using the pain to ground himself. No, no, he would not break down here, in the middle of a school hallway two minutes before the first class. He was better than that. Never mind that someone younger than Peter, someone he couldn't deny he thought was  _lesser_ was still making Ned happier than Peter had. 

Peter turned away and started walking to his locker to get his stuff, clenching his jaw and his fists and his eyes - anything, anything to stop him from disgracing himself in front of hundreds of students. He shouldered his backpack and walked numbly into his first class. 

And he couldn't help but wonder if he'd just been fooling himself the whole time. Couldn't help but wonder if maybe, maybe  _best_ _friends_ and  _promise?_ wasn't really forever, after all. 

Perhaps he was overreacting, he thought around fifteen minutes into English class, second period. Perhaps it was childish to see his best friend hanging out with someone else ~~enjoying himself more than he'd ever done with Peter~~ and instantly assume Ned didn't like him anymore, that Ned had just been waiting for someone better than Peter to come along all that time. 

Perhaps he was, but that didn't change the fact that it still hurt.

Peter pressed the tip of his mechanical pencil into the paper so hard it snapped.

It  _hurt._ God, it hurt so much. First Mr. Stark and Happy abandoned him.And now there was Ned: Ned, who'd walked right past Peter to get to class and hadn't even acknowledged Peter's existence; Ned, who'd promised they'd be best friends forever; Ned, who'd told Peter he'd always be there for him. Would Ned join them, too?

He tried to tell himself it would be fine. He tried to tell himself that it was just a fluke, that he had come late and that if he had come at his usual time everything would've been the same as always.

He kept telling himself that as he walked into third period math with Ned. 

Ned greeted him with a nod and a, "Hey, Pete. What's up?" 

Something inside him, something shriveled and cold, whispered,  _I bet Ned greeted that guy more enthusiastically than that._

"Not much," he answered with that grin he'd spent so much time perfecting. "How 'bout you, man? Finished that Lego Death Star yet?" 

"Not yet. I was planning on finishing it tonight with Jace."

"Jace?" His stomach dropped abruptly, a sense of foreboding crawling up his insides.

"Yeah, Jace! That blond kid I was talking to earlier. He's actually really nice. He's super nerdy. I think you'd like him. Hey, do you wanna come over too? Three heads are better than two, after all." 

Peter stayed silent a few steps, trying to formulate a response. It sounded like Ned had...had been hanging out with this guy awhile, if he was allowing Jace into his house. Why had he never told Peter? 

"I...I'm busy," he finally mumbled. "You know. Insect control." 

"Right." Ned nodded.

He didn't look disappointed.

"Tell me how it goes." 

He didn't sound interested. 

"...I will."

Peter mutely followed Ned into the classroom. 


	5. Chapter 5

Peter's hand hovered over the enter button on his computer.

The cursor blinked at him judgmentally from the edge of the search bar. Peter bit his lip, trying to muster the courage to hit enter. The words etched against the stark whiteness of the screen burned into his eyes.

Those same words he had asked himself every day now for a week.

Those same words he had been trying to avoid thinking for longer than that.

Am I depressed? 

Peter held his breath. Hit the enter key. 

Dozens of depression tests appeared. He clicked on the first one, a rather official one by a website that seemed to specialize in mental health. His eyes quickly ran over the first few lines of text before dropping to the first question.

_Over the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?_

He stared at the following text in consternation. _Having little interest or pleasure in doing things._

Recently he'd started to become more and more apathetic towards school. He knew it was mostly because school meant seeing Ned and Jace grow closer and closer every day, meant having to tolerate Ned's increasingly halfhearted and rare invitations which Peter invariably rejected. The only thing that really interested him anymore was patrol. So interest, yes.

But pleasure? Patrol was painful and almost every night he berated himself over something he could've done better. It was stressful and painful but he hadto do it, because if he didn't, then he'd be the worst kind of person there could be - the person who could do something, but simply didn't. 

Peter pursed his lips and clicked _e_ _very day._  He moved onto the next question: _Feeling tired or having little energy._

Again, he clicked _every day._ He always felt exhausted; patrol often had him staying out to midnight or later, and then he had to do homework. By the time he went to bed it was often past two, and he had to wake up at 6:30 in order to get to school. But- but that was hardly a symptom of depression! He was tired because of patrol, not because he was depressed.

_Feeling bad about yourself, or that you are a failure/have let you or your family down._

He flinched. Again, his brain protested - that wasn't a symptom of depression, that was just Peter. Just Peter not being good enough. Not good enough to save Uncle B-

He shook off the thought, clicked _e_ _very day._  

Peter moved through the rest of the question almost mechanically. They asked about his appetite (very good, seeing as he had superpowers), his concentration (awful and rapidly decreasing), and his mental processing (physically very fast; socially, getting slower and slower).

Peter looked at the last question. "Having thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself."

He glanced at where nail marks had been embedded in his skin earlier during school. His enhanced healing meant they were already gone, but the echo of pain that had come with them stayed. He found himself doing it whenever he saw Ned and Jace, or whenever MJ or some other person said something to him or about him that hurt. It helped ground him, and it never did any permanent damage, not like cutting or burning would.

Not, of course, that he'd considered that. Because he hadn't. Not really. 

Honestly, the idea of fire sent the plane crash with Toomes swirling through his head, and merely glancing at knives made Peter remember every mugging he'd stopped, every burglary or robbery he'd foiled. Peter had found that the only physical pain he could inflict on himself without increasing his mental pain had to be done with his own bare hands. 

Peter forced away his thoughts and refocused on the question. He didn't want to answer it, really, because again he had  _reasons,_ and they weren't because he was depressed. But finally he sighed and clicked that final, incriminating button.

_Every day._

He submitted his responses and closed his eyes for a second. He both never wanted to see the results and desperately needed to. 

"Okay, Parker," he murmured to himself. "You can do this. C'mon, just open your eyes. Just look at the results." 

His eyes snapped open. They were promptly met with words which made his heart sink.

"You have moderate to severe depression," he read numbly. "Please call the suicide prevention line, open 24/7, if you continue to feel this way." 

 

* * *

 

Isolated.

He felt isolated, like he was stuck inside a bubble, desperately trying to be seen and heard but failing. Always, always failing.

Peter dangled his legs over the side of a skyscraper, eyes staring down, down, down. Augmented by his suit, his vision allowed him to see with perfect clarity the moving cars hundreds of feet below, and his ears to hear the faint sounds of traffic. Up here, hundreds of feet above, the air was untouched. Solitary. Peter was unseen and unknown.

Like always.

Sometimes he could walk through the school hallways and pass by unnoticed. He could make it all the way from one classroom to the next with no one attempting to speak to him, to look at him, to even notice he existed. 

Sometimes, of course, he'd walk those same paths and get pushed around and sneered at by Flash. Sometimes he'd glance around just in time to see someone avert their eyes, ashamed to be looking at Penis Parker - that nickname Flash had given him had stuck, and Peter doubted it would ever go away. No. He was a loner; he was worthless. He was unwanted. 

It wasn't that Flash's bullying was that bad. Honestly, it wasn't. Peter's muscles were strong enough to take a little pushing, and the petty insults the other boy would throw at him weren't any worse than the ones tossed at Peter by minor criminals almost every night. But Flash's sneering and taunts served a purpose much more deadly than he could ever have purposed. They served to push Peter further away from everyone else and to reinstate his position of outcast. He had been lonely before then, but whenever Flash mocked him, Peter felt the ever-widening gap between he and everyone else increase. 

Peter knew it was very unlikely that every single person at school hated him. It wasn't like he'd done anything to them; nothing except being pushed onto the floor or jeered around school with taunts of "penis."

But, even if they didn't hate him, not one person reached out to him.

Not. One. 

And maybe it was because Peter's sad face looked like resting bitch face. Maybe it was because he had a bad habit of snapping at people when he'd had an even worse day than usual and Flash had just humiliated him. Maybe it really was Peter's fault, like everything else in this fucking world seemed to be. 

But would it have killed someone to try?

Peter buried his hands in his face, hating himself for the tears that came to his eyes. Hating himself even more for wanting someone to see them and to care.

"Peter, incoming call from Tony Stark."

Peter's head snapped up, even though Karen's voice came from inside the suit. He hastily rubbed at his tear-encrusted eyes, but his fingers only met the fabric of his mask. "What? No! Don't answer it!" 

"Answering call." 

"Karen! Karen, n-" 

"Hey kid." 

Peter froze, mouth still open in a silent O. 

He had neither seen nor contacted Mr. Stark since Peter had dropped those Stark Industries guns off at the Compound two weeks ago. A traitorous part of Peter wanted to suggest that perhaps it was because he still hadn't gotten a new phone, and that Mr. Stark had tried to get a hold of him but couldn't. A much larger part didn't want to give the man any more chances. 

Mr. Stark looked just the same as ever - not that Peter was surprised, it having only been two weeks. He looked tired, but then Mr. Stark always looked tired. He wore an AC/DC t-shirt; whatever else he wore went unseen, as FRIDAY's camera didn't go past the chest.

"Why haven't you been answering my calls?" 

The traitorous part of him gave a smug,  _told you so._

Peter gulped, hoping Mr. Stark didn't notice how off his appearance looked. "I, uh...well, you see, here's the thing, it's kinda complicated but-"

Mr. Stark gave a sigh. "Out with it, kid." 

"I...might have broken my phone?" 

Silence.

"See, when I say broken I don't mean  _broken,_ really, more like...uh, shattered? Oh crap that's not really better is it what I'm trying to say is-" 

"Peter." 

How was it that Mr. Stark was able to sound so long-suffering and tired in the space of two syllables? The man needed to teach a class on it. 

"Wait, Peter..." Through the tiny image on the screen, Peter saw Mr. Stark rub a hand over his eyes and sigh again. "How long has it been broken, exactly?" 

"Uh..."

"Because I remember you saying you didn't have a phone when you came to the Compound two weeks ago." Mr. Stark's voice was dead calm. "Two weeks ago, Peter." 

"Um, yes." 

"Are you planning on getting it fixed, or is that not cool nowadays? Do you teenagers think broken phones are hip or something?" 

Despite himself, Peter huffed a laugh. "No, no, that's - Mr. Stark, teenagers aren't  _that_ weird, I just..." 

He trailed off, eyes drifting back towards the pavement. Far below, he heard the sound of several different cars honking as they narrowly avoided crashing into each other.

He didn't want to tell Mr. Stark the truth. A part of him - a small, despised part but a part nonetheless - never wanted to interact with Mr. Stark again, at least not until he'd apologized. Or even just admitted that ignoring Peter for months was wrong. 

 _But is it, really?_ That tiny voice in his head whispered.  _Is it that wrong not to want to talk to the school loser, Penis Parker?_

"Peter," Mr. Stark said, a tinge of impatience in his tone, "you there?" 

"Yeah," he muttered distractedly, hastily pulling himself back into the present. "Yeah, I'm here. I'm good. Um...phone. Yes. We - uh, May and I - just haven't managed to get it to the repair shop yet. Hopefully we'll get it there soon." 

In truth, he'd only told May two days ago under duress. She'd wanted to know why he hadn't answered her calls and he'd been forced to show her the shattered screen of his once-beloved companion. She had promptly signed up for eight more shifts in order to start paying for the new phone. Peter felt awful about it, but he'd already tried arguing with her about it. She wouldn't budge. Her nephew would have a phone and that was that.

The look Tony gave Peter told him the man didn't believe him. "Right." 

"Really!"

"Kid, you'd make a terrible SHIELD agent. C'mon, tell me what's really going on." 

"Oh, so now you care about-"

Peter froze, eyes wide. He clamped a hand over his mouth in horror. 

Mr. Stark stayed quiet, eyes narrowing. He was clearly trying to figure out what Peter had been trying to say.

"Peter," he said slowly, "what's going on?" 

"Nothing." It was as quick as it was false.

"Right." The camera shifted; Mr. Stark was moving. With a pointed look he said, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes. These conversations are best done in person."

Peter gawked. Fifteen minutes? Wasn't he down at the Avengers Compound? "No, Mr. Stark, wa-" 

The screen blacked. 

With an annoyed sigh Peter lay down against the cement roof. He briefly entertained the thought of trying to run away but discarded it. If Mr. Stark wanted to talk to him, there wasn't much he could do about it. Like usual, he was at the man's beck and call.

Bitterness caught in his throat.

If Tony Stark wanted something, he would get it. Peter didn't know why Mr. Stark was pretending to care about Peter now, but the fact of the matter was that the man was. He was, and there was no escaping the inevitable now. All there was left to do was wait.

Peter closed his eyes and pretended he was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should make something clear: I don't believe Tony is a bad person. As hard as it may seem, I really don't, and I'm not intending on making him the villain of this story. Peter is lonely and bitter and depressed, and his thoughts aren't going to be 100% accurate. Just as Peter thinking he's worthless is false, so Peter thinking specific things about people like Tony or Ned is also false. 
> 
> Of course, some things are true: Tony did ignore Peter for months, and Ned did push Peter to the back burner in order to spend more time with Jace. However, that doesn't mean they hate Peter/don't care for him at all, nor does it mean either of them are the villain. If you want a villain, you'll find it in the title of this fic.
> 
> In other news: I know lots of authors say stuff like how unexpected people's responses to their fics are, and how they're so shocked they've gotten such and such views/kudos/etc, but honestly I am so touched by not just the kudos, but the comments. Several of y'all have asked me how I'm doing: the answer is that I just had a depressive episode today so I'm doing pretty badly, but I'm managing. I'm currently safe and not currently suicidal, which is good.  
> Thank you all for reading this, and an especial thank you for those who left such sweet comments.


	6. Chapter 6

"Hey, kid." 

Peter elbowed himself up to sitting. He didn't turn to face the voice that had spoken behind him, nor did he answer. He knew Mr. Stark would keep talking. 

"Wow, this...sure is a warm welcome you're giving me." Mr. Stark laughed, but it trembled slightly. "I'd almost think you were mad or something." 

Peter didn't bother to shake his head. He didn't feel angry. He didn't feel much of anything, really, the bitterness he'd felt minutes ago having passed on. These days, it was getting increasingly hard to feel. There were times when he would react to something and wouldn't be sure if it were because he actually felt that way or if he were just pretending. 

Heavy footsteps clanked against the roof as Mr. Stark walked towards him. Peter could hear the faint whirring of the man's suit as it slowly peeled away until the metal was gone and he stood scarcely a foot from Peter.

"Peter, I know I'm not very good with, uh, this kinda thing. But I'm getting worried. It's not like you to..."

Irritation stirred faintly in Peter's chest, but was swallowed by apathy. "To?" 

Mr. Stark heaved a sigh, one that was tinged with frustration. He probably hadn't been expecting Peter to be like this. Peter let a bit of vicious satisfaction well up in him; Mr. Stark had asked for it, after all. It was only fair for him to have to deal with Peter now.

As soon as that emotion came, though, it vanished, replaced by guilt. How dare he think that? Mr. Stark was only trying to be a decent person  _(because he feels guilty,_ part of him whispered) and Peter was making that harder.

No wonder he was lonely, with an attitude like that.

Knife-sharp pain flashed through his palms and this time his anger burnt away his apathy. 

"Peter..." Mr. Stark sat down a foot or so behind and to the left of Peter, grunting slightly with the effort. "What's going on?" 

"Nothing." 

"Kid, we've already established that you're not cut out for SHIELD. Just tell me the truth, okay?" 

But Peter just bit his lip and looked away, crossing his arms protectively over his chest. The thought of telling Mr. Stark something so personal was uncomfortable. No, more than that, the thought made his stomach roil in unease. Peter had spent the last weeks - months - really, ever since Ben had died - layering wall after wall over his vulnerable heart. After all, if he stopped letting people in, they couldn't hurt him anymore, right?

Wrong. He was so wrong. All he'd managed to do, it seemed, was become incapable of letting anyone help him. If that were really what Mr. Stark was trying to do.

Peter opened his mouth, but the words shattered in his throat and his jaw clacked shut once more. He knew his long silence was making Mr. Stark uncomfortable but he couldn't stop it. The anxiety, the fear over how he would react if Peter told him the truth, gnawed into his throat, burnt up the words he'd wanted to say. 

"Peter." Impatience tinged his voice. "C'mon. I came here for a talk, not an ultra-competitive silent game."

The unspoken words lingered in the air.  _You're wasting my time._

As though the mere thought had wounded him, Peter flinched. He scooted back from the edge of the building, away from the setting sun, and turned to face Mr. Stark. "Why?" 

Mr. Stark's brow furrowed. If Peter's sharp tone had affected him, he didn't show it. "Why what?" 

"Why do you care?" Vulnerability was difficult, but anger was so very easy. And once he'd started, he couldn't stop. "The only reason you came into my life in the first place was because you needed me. Not because you wanted to help me, or because you wanted to 'show me the ropes,' or whatever. No! You wanted me to help you stop a brainwashed super-soldier all the way in Germany! And yeah, you gave me a suit, that was cool, don't get me wrong. But then you...then you just _left_ me. For months." 

Peter took a deep breath. Somehow, the anger was already spent, leaving only exhaustion in its place.

"I texted Happy every day," he continued quietly. "And I never got a response. You know, sometimes I'd be having a bad day or whatever, like when Fla- uh, and I'd tell him...he never responded. Like, I-I know that teenager problems aren't really all that, uh, all that big, compared to saving the world. I knowthat! Um, but why even bother giving me Happy's number if he wasn't planning to contact me at all?"

Peter half-expected Mr. Stark to try and interject, but the man stayed astoundingly quiet, only watching Peter with an unreadable expression. 

"And. And I just, how could you expect me to trust that you were handling all the things you were when you didn't tell me anything?I'm not an adult, I get it. I know! But I'm not a little kid who can just accept things blindly, either. And Vulture..." 

Peter's voice faltered. He shook his head, turned away from Mr. Stark briefly in order to blink away tears. "Doesn't matter. So after that, you, I guess you thought you could make it up, right? Like you could just give me a really cool Christmas present or whatever and it'd be okay. But then I turned you down. And then I didn't hear from you. For months. And even then, that was only because  _I_ found guns with your name on them. Once again, I was only allowed back into your life when it was beneficial to you, Mr. Stark. Because you only want me around when I'm useful, right? And once I'm not, I'm just, just Penis Parker the loser, yeah? But  _you-"_

His voice broke. "But you- now you have the nerve to act like you care? You have ignored me ever since we first met, Mr. Stark! You never, ever listened to me! I was getting beaten up by Vulture - I had a fucking  _building_ dropped on me - but Happy just hung up! And you, you took away my suit and never bothered to come back. And when I finally made you proud or whatever, I refused to sign a death contract to become a superhero and, and what? You just thought you'd ignore me some more? Did I, did I hurt your feelings, Iron Man? Did I burst your precious little ego or something?"

"Kid-" Mr. Stark started.

"Because I don't know!" Peter cried. His voice echoed in the stillness, his rapid exhalations fogging in the cooling air. "I don't know what I've done wrong! I don't know how I keep screwing this up, Mr. Stark! But you don't care, you stopped caring, and I don't know how to fix it! You left me, and Happy left me, and U-Uncle Ben left me, and now Ned-" 

Peter ground to a halt with the suddenness of someone who had just realized what they'd said. "I-I..." 

There were a few seconds of silence.

"Peter," Mr. Stark said at last, with a gentleness Peter had never heard from him before. His voice wobbled as he spoke, and Peter watched as he ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I...I fucked up. I know. I should've had Happy answer your texts. I should've let you keep your suit. I should've talked to you. I-" 

Mr. Stark shook his head and blinked several times, muttering something to himself. Peter's enhanced hearing just barely made out a gritted  _not now._

"I'm sorry." 

Peter stared.

Retorts, rebuttals, retaliations all sprang to his tongue. Mr. Stark was vulnerable now without the armor that protected him. It was the perfect time to strike, to sink in spider's fangs and cut deep. Peter could make him see all the damage he'd caused, could make him regret his mistakes with every ounce of his being. 

 _He deserves it, after all,_ one part of his brain hissed.

But the other side just sighed.  _It's not like supporting you is on his priority list, Peter. You can't expect him to keep up after you. He is not your father._

"Okay." 

Mr. Stark looked up from his staring match with the roof. "Okay?" he repeated.

"Okay. I- I recognize you've made an apology." Peter nodded, trying to sound self-assured and adult. "I just...I can't forgive you just yet. Even if you really are sorry. You have no idea what- never mind. I just need some time to think. To, um, process." 

Mr. Stark seemed dazed, like he was in shock. "Yes. Of course. I'll- I'll just go, then. Back to the Compound and my ninety-three different projects. Cool. Good talk." 

He stood up a trifle unsteadily. Peter vaguely noticed he looked a shade paler than usual but chalked it up to the fading light of sunset. Mr. Stark made a jerking sort of hand motion and his suit flew towards him piece by piece. 

He turned to leave, but paused and turned back to Peter, who was still sitting and had to tilt his head up to see. Mr. Stark's helmet had peeled back away from his face, and Peter saw the complex mix of emotions on it. Saw, but did not understand, because Peter had never been all that good with body language and Mr. Stark was just a little bit too good at having a poker face. Peter thought he saw...pain, or maybe that was frustration. Or perhaps the furrowed brows meant anger. 

"I guess I'll see you around then, kid." There was a tiny lift in inflection at the end of the sentence, as though Mr. Stark had wanted to make it a question but decided not to at the last moment. 

Peter nodded. He couldn't quite muster the energy up for a response. 

Mr. Stark turned back around and fired up his propulsors. Peter only watched as the red-and-gold speck became smaller and smaller until it vanished from view. Then and only then did he lay back down onto the rough cement and stare up at the sky. 

 

* * *

 

It took fifteen minutes to get back to the Compound. Fifteen minutes of flying far above the speed of sound. Fifteen minutes of nigh-shattered eardrums from the amount of sonic booms.

It was fifteen minutes too long.

Tony couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He could barely hold himself together long enough to keep himself up in the air. A fleeting thought wondered how bad it'd be if he let himself fall. He pushed it away: he'd grown used to intrusive thoughts, and by now he'd gotten good at ignoring them. But another part of him muttered that he could only ignore them for so long. 

Finally, the familiar sight of the Avengers Compound loomed into view. He practically dropped out of the sky onto the landing pad. He was running before he was even fully on the ground, and faintly he heard himself say,

"FRIDAY, armor off. N-now." 

Had he just stuttered?

He shed the metal in seconds, but even the relative swiftness of his recently improved technology wasn't enough. His fingers went towards the last piece to come off - the breastplate - and harshly tugged. He thought he might have choked, but he disregarded that instantly. He was Tony Stark. He didn't choke. Or heave. Or...sob.

Or, well, any of the things he was currently doing. 

The metal melted off his chest, and as though that were what it'd been waiting for, his body fell forwards of its own accord. He caught himself with his hands as he fell to his knees, banging them sharply against the unforgiving floor (seriously, why had he thought marble would be a good idea?). His mind blanked, then jerked to a stop like a lagging computer. 

What had he done?

His breath quickened. His palms slicked with sweat. What had he done what had he done what had hedonewhathadhe-

"Tony, it seems as though you are currently having a panic attack." FRIDAY's voice came to him through hearing as tunneled as his vision. "Would you like me to call Pepper?"

Tony didn't hear, lost under the weight of guilt and shame and horror. What had he _done?_

He hadn't meant to do any of it. He hadn't meant to have the kid get so attached to him, hadn't meant to get attached to the kid. Hadn't meant to drag him to Germany and throw him away like garbage - hadn't thought Peter would ever care if he did. Except he was Tony Stark, billionaire engineer, and he was Iron Man. Of  _course_ the kid idolized him. Why hadn't Tony realized that sooner?

But the thoughts, the overwhelming guilt that accompanied the statement, sent another round of panic and he curled into a ball with his hands over his eyes. For perhaps the thousandth time in his life, the familiar emptiness in his chest cavity reminded him he had no air. For perhaps the thousandth time, he tried to breathe and failed.

"Calling Pepper Potts now."

It was through a waterfall that he heard FRIDAY's words. He forced himself to sitting. "FRIDAY, no! Do not call Pepper." 

Silence. For a moment he thought his own AI was disobeying him (like that hadn't happened before), then she responded. "Very well. I highly recommend you talk to someone about this, however."

Tony stared at the marble tiles. "I'll think about it." 

It was close to a godsend that FRIDAY had taken initiative like that. Although he didn't want to think about how Pepper would've reacted if she heard him having a panic attack,at least it had served to pull him out of his panic. He took a few deep breaths and was pleasantly surprised to find they didn't feel tight against his chest. After a few more he closed his eyes and lay back on the floor. Panic attacks always took a lot out of him. He'd learned the hard way that he needed to treat his body right after having one. 

For several minutes he forced himself not to think about anything. He knew it'd be all too easy to begin to panic once more, and panicking like that wouldn't be productive. He fixed things; it was what he did best. He could not fix things, however, from the throes of a panic attack. Before he could fully consider the depth of what Peter had revealed, he needed to get a hold of himself enough that he could examine this from a more objective light.

Ten minutes later, he sat up again and opened his eyes. Alright. What had been his first mistake in this whole process?

The answer came to him laughably quickly. Introducing himself to Peter, obviously. He never should've brought the kid into his world in the first place. But he'd been desperate for someone - anyone - to help him win against Cap. So he'd gone to a child vigilante and asked something he knew the kid wouldn't refuse. Had Tony been using Peter? Yes. Did he regret doing so? Yes.

In a way, he'd been completely aware of Peter's hero worship, he supposed. He knew that the persona he gave to the world was one most anyone would, if not like, at least respect. He was a genius, a billionaire, and a superhero. What was not to admire? 

What he'd expected, though, was for Peter to gradually realize who the  _real_ Tony Stark was. He wasn't the selfless hero of the kind the world lauded on TV. He wasn't kind or forgiving or gentle. He had charisma, that was true, and he had brains. But no one had ever truly known him and loved him. His father, his mother, Pepper - they were all examples of that. He'd expected Peter to be number four.

But apparently Peter wasn't, at least not yet. Apparently Tony had managed to screw the kid up even more. In those long months without contact, it was true he'd forgotten Peter for the most part, occasionally checking his vitals to make sure he was okay but never doing anything more. He'd had different things to worry about. He'd had issues to deal with. But he'd still thought of the kid sometimes, hoping - _wishing -_ he was better off without Tony. 

Did that excuse him? Of course not. 

Tony heaved a sigh and rubbed a hand over his face. There was no way around it: he had made a colossal amount of mistakes. In trying to protect himself, he'd succeeded in damaging Peter. 

But Tony fixed things. It was what he was good at. It didn't matter that he'd never once succeeded in fixing a relationship  _(I hate you, Tony!_ came a scream inside his mind). It didn't matter that it was the most daunting thing he'd ever imagined doing. Tony fixed his mistakes. And he would be damned if he didn't try to fix things with the kid. 

He owed Peter that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm still alive after all! Sorry the next chapter took so long; at first it was because my thoughts were just so hard to vocalize (if you didn't know already, I started this story as a vent and it's continued as pretty much the same thing, just with an actual plot outline). Then it was because I kinda went numb over the holidays? And then I actually got to spend time with a friend and it made me feel less alone. 
> 
> In case you're worried, the reason I'm posting this story now isn't because I've suddenly been hit with loneliness again. I'm actually doing...okay, I guess. I think it's because I'm taking the meds I actually need for my brain chemistry to function properly, haha (please, peeps. If you have meds, take them! If you're thinking about getting them, do it. They won't cure you, but they can give you enough agency for you to do it yourself). 
> 
> Once more, I want to thank all of you for being so extremely sweet with your comments. I'm touched that you care enough to send in comments like these. I value each of them and it's truly wonderful to see that so many of you can relate to what I'm going through. It makes me feel, well. Not alone. ❤


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without giving too much away, severe trigger warnings for suicide. Basically everything on the topic. If you're at all triggered by any of that, this chapter's not for you.

He was becoming familiar with that empty feeling in his chest.

He felt it a lot. It weighed him down in the lunchroom as he snuck glances at Ned and Jace. It hollowed him out in academic decathlon practice as he watched Flash slowly overtake Peter's academic prowess. It sunk into his veins as he thought about Mr. Stark.

Yep. It'd been a week since their talk on the top of that skyscraper and Peter still couldn't get over it. He'd had a horrific depressive episode that night, to the point where he'd only been able to stare up at his bedroom ceiling and think about how worthless he was. 

 _It's not Mr. Stark's fault,_ he told himself bitterly that night.  _It's yours for not being good enough._

He hadn't gone out on patrol that night or the next. He hadn't been able to do anything except exist, and even that was getting difficult. 

Some days he felt more robot than human, like he was one of the replicants from Blade Runner instead of a real person who could feel. May had begun to shoot him concerned looks whenever she thought he wasn't looking. He felt them whenever he came down from his bedroom in silence, whenever she came home to an expressionless shell instead of the vibrant teenager he'd once been. Because he hadbeen different once upon a time.

Hadn't he?

Or had he just been fooling himself?

To make matters worse, he'd started snapping at people whenever he was even mildly inconvenienced by something or someone. He tried not to be so angry, but somehow it was so awfully difficult not to glare at the person who dropped a book on Peter's foot. It was hard not to turn on his heel and stride away when someone asked him for tutoring help, or any help at all. It was hard not to give an exasperated huff when someone asked him something about his day. He was  _fine,_ and he would always be  _fine,_ and he would never be anything more than  _fine._

And in-between bouts of unreasonable irritation, in-between panic attacks and nightmares and pain, he simply felt nothing at all. 

It was one of those nights of numbness, after he'd changed out of the Spider-Man suit after patrol, while he was sitting on the roof of a skyscraper. It was then that he first began to wonder what it would be like if he just...weren't there anymore. Surely no one would care. Ned would hear the news, shrug, and go back to theorizing about the next Star Wars movie with Jace. May would cry, but inwardly feel relieved she didn't have to deal with her screw-up of a nephew anymore. MJ would roll her eyes and mutter  _about time he did._

The emptiness grew in his chest, suffocating him, weighing down his shoulders, lowering his eyes to the pavement far below him. The cold night's wind whispered through his ears.  _Do it,_ it said.  _Do it._

Happy would grin and delete Peter's contact information and go to a bar in celebration over not having to deal with him ever again. Mr. Stark would join, grateful he no longer had to get roped into teenage drama and suffering. His classmates would feign sadness, but three weeks later would never think on him again. Flash would probably throw a party - under the guise of being a memorial, of course - and talk about how happy he was that Penis Parker was dead.

Dead.

The corners of Peter's lips turned up. It wasn't a pretty smile. It was bitter, just like his eyes were as they gazed into nothing. 

Dead. He quite liked the sound of that. He wouldn't have to be empty anymore. He wouldn't have to be angry and panicky and traumatized all in the span of fifteen minutes. He wouldn't have to feel the loneliness crawling through his veins and up his throat, choking him. He wouldn't even have to exist. And that, he wanted more than anything.

As soon as the thought reached his mind, he couldn't stop thinking it. Nigh-maniacal thoughts swirled around his head. He wanted to be dead, he wanted to be dead, he wanted to be dead. He wanted out.He wanted an escape from the Hell that was his life. He wanted to feel normal,but the only way that'd ever happen was if he just couldn't feel at all. He wanted to die! He. wanted. to.  _die._

Peter bolted to his feet, chest heaving. His vision blurred and clouded with tears which he angrily wiped away. Why had it taken him so long to think about it? Why had it taken him so long to realize a solution that had been right in front of him for so long? Peter blinked down at the ground, nauseating hundreds of feet below. He could do it. He could do it right now. He could fall or jump or dive and it'd all be over. 

"No more emptiness," he murmured, voice a weak croak. He cleared his throat and said it again. 

He crept farther towards the edge and looked down. The distance-dimmed lights of the cars blared. His sensitive ears picked up a solitary honk. Strange. In the streets of New York City, it was astoundingly quiet. It was ironic, really. The quietest day in the city was the loudest day in his head, in his ears as he heard his heart pound in his chest. Peter took another step closer to the edge, and stopped.

Would...would _anyone_ miss him? 

His lips pursed. Unwillingly, he had to concede a yes.May would miss him. 

"No," he murmured aloud, trying to convince himself. "She'd be happy I'm gone." 

But would she?

He stepped closer. He didn't know. But- but even if she did, even if she  _did..._ she'd get over him. She'd gotten over Peter's parents. She was getting over Uncle Ben. She was a strong lady, much stronger than Peter usually gave her credit for. She would be fine. In fact, she'd be more than fine, once she was no longer burdened with taking care of him. Peter nodded to himself. May would be fine. 

Another step closer.

His brain stopped him once more. _What about Ned?_ it asked him.  _What about Mr. Stark?_ _If you die, you'll take away any chance of things getting better with them._

But he shook his head and heaved an exhausted sigh. Things would never get better with Ned. Things would never get better with Mr. Stark or Happy. He'd waited months, and instead of getting better, everything had only gotten worse. He didn't care if there were a distant white light in front of him. He knew it was a lie. And even if it weren't...he didn't know if he could hold on any longer.

Numbness overcame him for a moment, and he stared straight ahead, unable to muster the willpower to do or think anything. For whatever reason, he would never see things get better, because...because that was just who he was.

As suddenly as the numbness had come, it went. Bitterness rose up inside him like a fire. He clenched his fists.

"Why?" The word, sharp and cold, cut into him almost as harshly as the wind.  

Why indeed? Why was he like this? Why was he the one chosen to have these powers? Why was he the one who had to suffer endlessly - losing his parents, his uncle, his friends? 

 _"Why?"_ he asked again, directing his query to the night sky. "Why am I like this!?" 

Rage broke his voice just as surely as pain did. He didn't understand why it had to be him. He didn't understand why he had to be unwanted. Unloved. Second-best. Overlooked, underestimated, worthless. Alone.

"Tell me," he cried to the emptiness above him, "tell me  _why!"_

But only silence answered.

A sob rose up inside him, and Peter sank to his knees on the cement. His arms wrapped around himself protectively and he rocked back and forth, hiccuping and heaving and crying. They were ugly sounds, sounds he would've been ashamed of in any other context, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was, after all, alone. And he was, like always, lonely. 

As the night air sank into him and chilled him, so followed despair. He would never be happy. He would never be loved. A dark and empty existence leered ahead of him now, its gaping maw sneering. Death would be not an escape, but a mercy. Even if...even if the afterlife wasn't the simple end of his existence, and was instead Hell or something similar. Because at least he wouldn't have to deal with this anymore. 

His despair slowly grew, as did every other emotion. They grew and grew and grew, and his heartbeat with them. Peter stood up again and edged back over to the side of the building. He didn't want to deal with it anymore. He didn't want to deal with anything. He didn't want this life. He didn't want this. 

The thought came to him as he stared over the edge,  _even if you're in Hell, at least you won't be alone anymore._

Peter took a shallow, tempestuous breath. And another. He gazed down at the cars moving so far down below, at the passerbys who would all too soon be receiving the shock of their lives. He hoped, at least, that he didn't hurt them on his way down. He'd made enough mistakes already. He was worthless enough. He didn't need to add that on his way down. 

He took one last terror-stricken, wholly content breath. 

"I love you, May," he whispered. The words were stolen away by the breeze.

Peter raised his arms...

_You won't be alone anymore._

...And fell forwards.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: everything on the topic of suicide. This chapter's a doozy. I repeat: if you're triggered by suicide at all, you should a) not read this chapter, b) not read the end note, and c) consider not reading the rest of this fic since I'm gonna be referencing this chapter a lot. Stay safe, mmkay? Mmkay.
> 
> Also, for all those who will be reading this chapter, please read my end note. It's long, but I think it's worth it.

It took nine seconds for Peter to hit the ground. Nine seconds of terminal velocity free-fall from the height of the 800-foot building he'd thrown himself off of. 

 _One._  

Peter stared resolutely down at the rapidly-nearing passerbys and clenched his jaw, shoving the trickle of fear down. He wanted this. He wanted this. This was the solution to the problem that was his life.

The wind caught at him, tearing tears from his eyes, shrieking in his ears. His preternatural vision saw the street below in perfect, vivid technicolor despite the impending dusk. It imprinted in his brain forever - however long his forever would be. Illuminated by glowing streetlamps, a bustle of people hurried through the sidewalks, bumping and elbowing each other for room. Teens, eyes fixed on their flashing phones and headphones in their ears, marched along through harried businessmen and smiling grandmothers. Varied vehicles fought for dominance in the crowded streets; drivers honked and cursed. It was a vision, however imperfect and clear, of life. 

Life, Peter realized, that he was leaving behind.

_Two._

Dying would be nothing but a relief.

No longer would he have to linger on the fringes of circles of 'friends,' knowing that no matter how long he stayed, no matter how often he laughed with them, he would never. be. enough. No longer would he have to force a laugh or hide the marks on his palms or make up such convenient, convenient lies.  _I'm tired, that's all. I'm okay. I'm fine._

No longer would he have to watch with deadened eyes as his classmates' grades slowly pulled further and further ahead of his. No longer would he have to stare dimly at the pages and hear the whispers from the back of the classroom,  _isn't he on our decathlon team? Shouldn't he be smarter than the rest of us?_

Down below, people were moving, moving, moving. The cars and taxis and buses in the street moved with them. He heard the distant roar of a revved engine, heard a multitude of responding honks as the car failed to move within the first second of a green light. New Yorkers, Peter couldn't help but think with nostalgia mixed in with annoyance. The most impatient bunch out there.

He wondered what would happen once his body hit the ground. Would he stop the moving bodies at all? Would even his death make the slightest impact on the world around him? Or would those strangers he watched from free-fall only glance at his broken body? Would they eye it in disgust and step past it, as drivers swerve to avoid roadkill? 

The wind tore at him again. This time the tears came freely.

The streetlights flickered with the darkness closing in. They shone against the shiny paint of whizzing cars. The glow reached Peter's eyes and made them smart. He told himself that was the reason his eyes stung.

He wouldn't have to be alone anymore, he reminded himself desperately. Not after this. He wouldn't have to stare around at all the happy, happy people and feel a sick stab of longing. He wouldn't have to watch their casual affection or see their phones light up with loving texts. Nor would he have to sit in a darkened corner of his mind's own making, wishing he wasn't there so he didn't have to see their love, their belonging, their acceptance of one another. 

He wantedthat. He wanted to feel whole, to smile and mean it. He wanted to be able to socialize without always feeling lesser. 

A sob tore out of his rib-cage and was swallowed up by the wind's roar.

_Three._

Eyes fixed on the pavement below, he realized something. He didn't want to die. Perhaps that would be his solution, but in reality...

He wanted to start living.

He wanted to live a life filled with people - maybe not a lot, maybe only a few - who cared for him, whom he cared for in return. He wanted a wife he could smile with and whisper  _I love you's_  to.He wanted friends he could confess anything to without being judged, and family who would support him through everything. He wanted laughter and joy. He wanted to be able to look at a group of people without envying them, and to look at a cliff without wondering what it'd be like to jump off of. 

And he realized something else. The life he was living wasn't a life. It was survival. 

And then as a stranger's head shot up and her horrified gaze locked with his, he thought of how easy it could've been to live instead of to survive. Because, staring the abyss in the eyes, everything suddenly seemed insignificant. His problems with Tony and Ned and MJ and Happy seemed meaningless, because in a few short seconds they would be. All of his trauma and depression could've been, if not solved, at least helped. Mr. Stark had mentioned a therapist to him once in passing. Peter wasn't too proud to accept help when he needed it. He had simply never been offered it.

But, he thought as the stranger's eyes softened in pain, perhaps he could've asked.  

As though the wind had torn the blinding veil from his thoughts, all of a sudden dozens of thoughts sprang to being. A dozen realities, alternatives to what could've been. He could've told May. He could've told his school's guidance counselor. He could've called one of the suicide hotlines that website had suggested what felt like eons ago. Somehow it had taken _this_ in order for Peter to realize everything he could've done differently.

He pretended it wasn't regret that he felt churning through him.

_Four._

The stranger stopped in place. Her mouth opened but nothing came out of it. She was staring up at Peter and her eyes were horrifically sad. Peter had no idea how to deal with the emotion in her expression. He supposed it was good that he was about to die. 

And then his eyes widened in horror. He locked eyes with her again. 

"MOVE!"

His scream was lost to the wind.

_Five._

She was standing directly, perfectly below him. A sad smile quirked her lips. He had no idea why. Was she suicidal too? Did she want to die, and did she see his falling body as the best method of doing so? Or did she just not want him to be alone?

He looked again. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps the sadness in her eyes wasn't just for him. Because he saw it then. Her lips moved for an instant and her mouth formed a name.  _Zion._ The loved one she'd lost. 

_Six._

The stranger's arms spread wide to catch him. He screamed to the wind, trying to tell her that his fall was from too high, that his speed was too great. He was a lost cause. He was going to die no matter what cushioned his fall, and she would die with him. 

_Seven._

But would she?

And for the first time the thought sang into his mind,  _y_ _ou could save yourself._ Because of course he could. He was Spider-Man. He might not have his web-shooters, but that wasn't important. He was used to falling. He knew exactly how to manipulate gravity to his advantage. He would save himself, but not for himself. For her. For that stranger with compassion and pain in her eyes, the scarce-spoken name of her loved one on her tongue. She'd lost enough already. She didn't need to lose her life too. 

Because for the last two seconds of his life, he wouldn't have been alone. Her eyes would've been the last thing he saw and her arms what held him close as his heart stopped. Anyone who would do that much for a stranger deserved to be paid back in kind.

_Eight._

So Peter summoned every ounce of his strength and forced his body into a flip. The force of the wind would've been insurmountable to any normal human. As it was it took everything he had to force himself into a ball. He locked eyes with the girl one last time before the momentum of his flip flung his body backwards through the windows of the building he'd jumped from.

_Nine._

And he hit, not the ground, but the floor of the building's second story.

The impact, broken as it was by his redirection of force, still sent fiery pain up his entire body. He let out a shattered scream as something snapped inside him. Glass rained down around him, cutting his clothes and hands and face. 

For a long moment nothing more happened. Peter stayed face-down on the ground, panting and sobbing, limbs shaking. It took him far too long to realize that the building he was in was abandoned, or at least that this floor was. The entire place was dark except for the dim light of dusk. It was completely bare of furnishings.

Grunting with the effort, Peter pushed himself up. He smacked right back down onto the floor.

It wasn't just the pain, although that was there too - he was pretty sure he'd broken several different bones as well as done a lot of other things. But for him with his enhanced healing factor none of that even registered. No, what mattered was that his legs had simply refused to work.

"Calm down, Parker," he muttered. "You're probably just in shock right now. Your body hasn't recovered yet, that's all."

Except his arms could work perfectly fine. And his legs were completely numb.

He pushed himself onto his back then attempted to sit. The motion caused an agony like nothing he'd ever known. He let out a muffled shriek and let himself fall back down to the ground, panting. His eyes, wide with terror and pain, fixed themselves upon the bare ceiling. 

What had he done? 

Peter braced himself and attempted to move his right leg. His eyes flickered down to the limb, hoping, hoping...

Nothing. Not even the slightest tremble of movement. 

Horror overcame him. He gaped blankly down at a leg he could barely see from his position, eyes wide and completely dry of tears. Somehow, the sheer shock of the moment had completely deprived him of any other feeling.

He was paralyzed.

It was that more than anything that did it. Peter let his head fall back to the floor with a thud. A low, maniacal laugh resounded from his chest, starting soft but crescendoing rapidly. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't fucking believe it. For once in his life he thought he'd made the right call. He'd saved that woman's life. But of course now he was lying alone in an abandoned skyscraper, paralyzed from the waist down. Of fucking  _course._

Peter let out a loud, exhausted sigh. This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid in the first place. This was exactly why he'd jumped from such a height. He'd rather die than live as a paralytic. His life was already terrible enough; he didn't need to add to it.

He stared up into nothingness for several minutes, brain entering the depressive trance state that was becoming normal for him.

It was an effort to shake it off, but finally he did. First, he catalogued every injury he had. The mere thought of his paralysis gave him pause, brain threatening to drown him in despair, but he bravely trudged on. His wrists hurt to flex - he was fairly certain his right was broken, as he'd used it to stop the force of his fall. His right shoulder also throbbed angrily, but it was probably a mere strain and not anything more serious. He had several dozen cuts across his body from the window glass, and a litany of forming bruises. As for his legs...well, the only thing he could feel down there was an unpleasant tingle. 

Now that that had been done, Peter turned his mind to the next step. Predictably, one part of his brain muttered,  _crawl back out the window and finish the job,_ but he stopped it. Somehow his fall had awakened survival instincts he'd been trying to ignore when he jumped. More than that though, he couldn't help but reiterate the thought he'd had during his fall. He didn't want to die.

He wanted to start living.

He couldn't imagine how he would live as a paralytic - that eventuality was one that even now caused thoughts of suicide to run through his head. But if he could get past this, maybe that wouldn't be where the healing stopped. Maybe he could muster the courage to tell May and go see an actual therapist. 

Even now, his brain wanted to laugh at the suggestions. But Peter forged bravely on. 

He automatically reached his hand into his pocket for his phone - and froze.

"Oh _shit."_

If there were a stronger word than that,Peter would've used it then. As it was he resorted to various long strings of curses that still failed to meet the true, deep meaning of exactly what had happened.

He was paralyzed. He was in a place no one would ever look for him. And he didn't have his phone.

 

* * *

 

Peter didn't know how long he sat there, utterly despondent and despairing. All he knew was that the street sounds he'd grown accustomed to hearing gradually grew lesser - not too much lesser, since this was New York - but enough that he knew night was in full swing. He felt more than saw his cuts slowly seal over and occasionally picked out shards of glass when he felt his flesh try to close over them. His left wrist began to throb less and less but his right wrist remained just as painful. His legs remained completely unresponsive. 

Finally Peter decided enough was enough. He would not rot away here. He would get himself back home to May, even if he had to crawl all the way there.

Peter rolled over onto his stomach and stretched his arms out above him. His right shoulder gave a twinge of protest. Dammit. How was he going to do this? It would be easier to simply crawl out the window again and down the side of the building, but he wasn't sure if the darkness would cover him completely. But if he crawled out into the hallway of the building, he could easily get lost. Hell, for all he knew, the building might not even have stairs. There was no way he could work an elevator in the state he was in. 

Peter grimly decided he had no other choice. He had to go down the outside of the building. 

Grunting, he began the arduous task of dragging himself over to the window. Thanks to his super-strength, his upper body was more than capable of pulling him along without help from his legs, but his injuries made it more than a little difficult. He ended up mostly pulling himself by his left arm, a feat that nigh-exhausted him by the time he'd made it the few feet back to the window. 

Peter took a few seconds to catch his breath. A droplet of sweat rolled down his temple and into his shirt. A strange, tingling pain had started up in his lower back. He latched onto the broken window with his left hand and heaved himself perilously up. He placed his right hand on the other side of the window, let go of the left, and swung out of the building. 

As he dangled by one hand, he was surprised to find that the only emotion he could feel was fear. There was no longing. No temptation to let himself fall. It was as if what had happened not even an hour before hadn't been real; as if he were back to his normal web-slinging, adrenaline-filled nights of patrol. It was such an odd feeling that his stomach gave an odd swoop, although that could've also been because Peter started crawling downwards at that moment. 

He knew better than to drop down onto the street, so he began to make his painful way cross-ways around the building. As luck would have it, behind that skyscraper was a conveniently placed convenience store, its lights still on and a bored-looking employee behind the counter. Peter fixed his eyes on the guy and slowly, painfully crawled towards him. 

His right hand felt like it was on fire before he was even halfway there. The fingers of both hands began to tingle from excessive use of his adhering abilities. Peter just grit his teeth and kept moving. He forced every thought except his goal out of his mind. 

Finally he dropped to the ground several yards away from the store. His entire body shook with exhaustion, and he gasped as though he'd just run a marathon. Peter rested his head on the dirty cement for a moment before compelling himself forward once more. 

The door, thank the sweet Lord Jesus, was a push door. Peter grabbed the doorjamb in one hand and leveraged himself forward into the door with the other. A weak jangle signified his entry. The employee looked up, gave a confused pause, then looked down. His face turned pale.

"Oh my God dude, you alright?" 

Up until that point Peter hadn't given any thought to his appearance. Now he realized just how horrific he must appear: glass shards in his hair, sweat beading his forehead, dozens of scabbed-over cuts littering his body, and clothes tattered. His wrist was swollen and he was panting loud enough it almost hurt his ears to hear it. Add that to the fact that he was stomach-down on the ground, and he could understand the man's concern. 

"I...not really," he said before he could stop himself. The thought came to him that that was the first time he'd answered that question honestly in months. "Actually...not at all."

The man nervously approached him, blue eyes flicking past Peter into the darkened alleyway the store was situated in. Understandable. He probably thought Peter had just gotten beaten up by some gang.

"Roughed you up good didn't they?" 

Peter mumbled something noncommittal. 

"I'm gonna pull you inside now, alright?" 

"Left wrist, please. My right's broken." 

The man nodded, grabbed the aforementioned limb, and tugged him inside. The door jangled once more as it closed. Peter rolled over onto his back to get a better look at the man.

"You got a phone to call somebody?" was the man's next question. He ran a hand over his bald head and shifted on his feet a little. He obviously wasn't very comfortable with the situation. Peter couldn't blame him. 

"It's broken. Can I use yours to call..." Peter trailed off. Who could he call? 

 _May, you idiot._ His mind's voice sounded strangely like Mr. Stark. 

But...he couldn't do that to her. He knew he'd have to tell her at some point, but right now he just couldn't. Just the thought of calling her and telling her, "Hey May, I tried to kill myself today and now I'm paralyzed and have a broken wrist."...well, it wasn't a pleasing idea. He didn't want to hurt her.

Mr. Stark's voice muttered,  _but you still threw yourself off a building?_

He didn't have a response for that. 

A phone thrust itself towards his face. Peter cringed backwards on instinct and put his uninjured hand in front of his face. It took him far too long to realize what it actually was. 

"Oh. Um, tha- sorry. And thanks." He scrolled through the man's phone apps and nearly sighed in relief when he located the Uber app. "I'm, uh, gonna call an Uber - I'll pay for it, I promise! I just-"

"That's fine," came the reply. "Do whatever you need to do, dude." 

Peter thanked him again and pulled up the app. A minute later, he had a driver inbound and an assurance that he would pay with cash once he got there. When Peter asked if the driver could help him in the car - a severe case of drunkenness, Peter told him, then promptly tried to slur his vowels as much as possible - he'd received a long-suffering sigh and a request for a larger tip. Peter had counted up the money in his pockets (barely enough for the ride itself) and given a shaky laugh. 

He hung up and exhaled shakily. He made to give the phone back to the cashier but paused. He needed a plan of action. He wanted to go back home but couldn't face May like this. What other option did he have? 

In a flash the answer came to him. 

"I'm gonna need to make two more calls. Um, is that okay?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'll be long but bear with me. It's worth hearing.
> 
> Although I haven't exactly read a ton of fics where the character attempts suicide and fails, those that I have read always seem to have the solution be that someone else comes into the equation and forces the character to stop/gets them to the ER or whatever. The thing is, in real life, tons of people commit suicide...and no one stops them. Or they try, and don't get there in time. So I wanted to make Peter's story different. Peter saves himself, even if it's partially for someone else. 
> 
> A lot of you have probably heard this story, but out of all those who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived, every single one who was interviewed afterwards (I think this was in 2014? 2011? Not sure) said they regretted their actions on the way down. I think that's worth some thought, for anyone who's feeling similarly to Peter. And I think also that what Peter realizes partway through the chapter is true. I don't think there's a single suicidal person out there who wouldn't want to keep living if their life could get better. We simply lose sight of that wondrous 'if.' 
> 
> Also, to anyone who might be thinking about attempting, here's something I've learned from researching it myself. It might seem, from all the depressing fics we read, that it's easy to kill yourself. IT IS NOT. The likelihood of you actually dying from blood loss or from swallowing pills (although that depends on the pills) is actually a lot lower than I thought it would be. The likelihood of you dying from throwing yourself off a building is also pretty low. It's far more common to incur brain damage or severe spinal injuries, usually things like partial or complete paralysis. Hanging is pretty low as well and is long and painful unless you fulfill some pretty strict requirements that are basically impossible to complete inside a building or even from a tree. Asphyxiation gives brain trauma, and blood-loss can affect organs long-term. 
> 
> So just ask yourself: is dying worth that? All that pain, all that agony, the fear you'll experience, is it worth it? Even when failure could end in brain damage and/or permanent disability? Most suicides are long, slow, and excruciatingly painful. I'm sorry to say it this way, and I hope it's not too indelicate to say, but suicide is horrifically painful no matter the path, and that's only speaking physically, and only speaking about your own experience. This is without taking into account anybody else. And believe me, there ARE other people. Even if you don't have a loving family. Even if you don't have a significant other. People will feel your absence in the uneasy crawling of their skin, in the strangeness of a day without you, in the dull ache of guilt or pain or sorrow. 
> 
> So really, is it worth it?


	9. Chapter 9

"Hello, who is this?"

Peter closed his eyes, throat constricting. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to face this. But he had to. He'd promised himself he'd make it out of this mess. 

"Hello?"

"Hey Ned, it's...Peter. Uh, Peter Parker."

"Peter?" Ned asked after a pause. "Is everything okay? Is your phone broken or something? I don't recognize this number." 

"Uh, yeah. Listen, I..."  _I'm sorry,_ he wanted to say, but he didn't know for what.  _I'm sorry I'm broken? I'm sorry I'm a suicidal, traumatized mess? I'm sorry I'm worthless?_

"Peter?"

"I'm paralyzed." 

Peter stiffened an instant after the word left his mouth. In his peripheral vision he saw the cashier's eyes widen in horror and the man make a half-step towards him. Peter guessed the fact that he'd literally crawled into the store hadn't been enough to clue the man in.

Ned gave a nervous laugh. "Uh, sorry, I think I must've misheard you. What did you say again?"

Peter opened his mouth. A desperate feeling inside him warned him not to say again, not to open up to Ned. It told him to tell Ned nothing, to lie like he always had and always would.

"...I'm paralyzed, Ned. I can't move my legs. I- I screwed up."

Silence.

"Peter, you actually...oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God  _Peter,_ what the hell did you-"

"And I, uh, I don't expect anything from you, I promise," Peter continued hurriedly, "I just, I'm gonna call May and tell her I'm over at your house until I can...until I can tell her that myself. So ifyoucouldtellherthat-"

"No way!" Ned's voice was so loud that even the cashier flinched.

Peter bit his lip. Tears stung his eyes. "Look, Ned, I know we haven't really talked much lately but  _please-"_

"No way," Ned said again, softer. "Peter, there is absolutely  _no way_ I am letting you do this by yourself. I mean, what the fuck, you're  _paralyzed_ and you're just gonna, what, hang out on a rooftop until you man up?"

"I never said-"

Ned huffed. "Peter, don't even try that. I've known you since kindergarten. What, you think paralysis is something you're just gonna get over?"

Peter winced. 

"You were right earlier. We haven't talked lately and I don't really know why. If it was my fault, I'm sorry. But we're still best friends, right?" There was something so hopeful in Ned's tone Peter wanted to cry. "So here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna call an Uber or something and get your butt over here, and then we're gonna call May and tell her you're sleeping over tonight, and we're gonna take you to the ER and get you some actual medical attention. Okay?"

"Ned, I can't go to the-"

"Hell no you can't. Peter, this is your life we're talking about here! You can't just throw it away!"

Peter looked down. Hadn't he just tried to?

"Ned," he said quietly, giving a surreptitious glance to the cashier, who very obviously began to walk to the back of the store. "That spider bite...it changed my DNA. I can't go to an ER. They're gonna realize I'm, I'm different, and I dunno, do some sort of tests or something."

"Fine. We'll discuss that once you get here. Don't think I'm letting you off the hook though, okay? I've let you off way too often and it's come back to bite me in the ass."

Peter looked down at the tiled floor. "Okay." 

"Uh, since you don't have your phone, do you want me to call an Uber for you?"

"There's one already on its way," Peter said quietly. "It should be here soon."

"Okay. Cool. Um, well, I'll...see you soon."

"Yeah," Peter said awkwardly. There was a short pause where both of them sat there waiting for the other to hang up. Then, right as Peter was certain Ned was hanging up, Peter mustered the courage to squeak out, "Thank you."

"For what?" Ned asked. "We're friends, Peter. This is what we do."

Peter put a hand to his lips. "I-I know. I just, I, thank you. For..."

"Always," Ned promised.

Peter hung up and let the arm holding the phone clatter loosely to the floor. An indescribable mixture of emotion churned through him: pain, fear, gratefulness, bitterness. Loss intermingled with them all, and that empty feeling he was so familiar with was back inside his chest.

Now that he was paralyzed, he couldn't be Spider-Man. That had been his life's goal, his lifelong mission, his dream. Just one night had ripped it away from him. 

He shook his head to clear it of thoughts. Bemoaning his fate wouldn't do anything for him. He needed to keep calm until he could get inside the Uber and get to Ned's house. And then...well, he didn't know. Just the thought of spending time with the guy who'd been his best friend up until a month or so ago was strange. But he'd deal with that, along with everything else, later. 

"Uh, hey man, could I have my phone back?"

Peter started guiltily and glanced up at the cashier, who'd just walked back. "Oh, uh, of course! I'm sorry, I wasn't really thinking-"

"No worries. Um, about your, um..." the man motioned awkwardly at Peter. "For what it's worth, that sucks, man."

An unexpected rage boiled inside Peter's chest. That sucks? Was that all the man could muster? Could he not offer to help at all? Peter huffed, then forcibly reined himself in.

"...Thanks."

"Wish I could help you more," the man continued, "but I'd kinda like to keep my job. Gangs aren't always too happy bout interfering."

"This wasn't a-" Peter stopped. He had no better way to explain why he'd gotten paralyzed. He might as well let the man believe what he would. "...yeah."

There was another awkward silence.

"So, uh," Peter started. "Come here often?"

Silence.

"Uh, I mean-" he made eye contact with the cashier. Shut his mouth and decided not to say anything else.

Instead, he stared up at the dirty ceiling and kept his mind as blank as possible. The cashier shuffled in place, fiddling with his pockets and phone. Peter's enhanced hearing could make out every tiny fabric rustle and it was rapidly getting on his nerves. Finally, just before Peter lost it, the cashier's phone beeped. The man checked it and then turned to Peter.

"Your ride's here now."

"Great, thanks. Um I hope you have a good day - uh, night - and, uh, yeah!"

He began to pull himself out of the shop the same way he'd come in. The position made his pride smart, especially when he could feel the cashier's eyes burning into him, but there was no one else to help him and he'd rather throw himself off that building again than ask for help. It took him an embarrassingly long time to get outside. Once he saw how much farther it'd be to the car, he almost stopped right there.

Miracle of miracles, however, the driver seemed to realize what was going on, for he got out of his car and strode towards Peter. He was tall and well-built, probably in his 20s. He looked strong enough to carry Peter. That was all that mattered to Peter at the moment.

"Dude, you okay? Are you the one who ordered the Uber?"

"Yeah, that's me," Peter grunted. "And no, not really."

"Shit man, you look bad," the driver continued, voice tinged with worry. "Like really bad. You sure you didn't call the wrong number?"

"Yeah. Hospital bills are way overpriced anyway," Peter got out, and was relieved when the driver gave a short, amused huff. "Uh...could you..."

"Oh! Yeah, of course." The driver stooped down, grabbed Peter under his armpits, and lifted him to his feet. When Peter failed to stand up, the man paused and then bodily picked Peter up and carried him to the car. It was a surprisingly gentle carry, especially for it being a stranger's doing. Peter couldn't help but wonder at the contrast between this man and the cashier he'd just dealt with. 

Once they'd made it to the car, the man shifted Peter's unwieldy weight around and got his hands on the passenger door.

"Actually," Peter squeaked out, "could you lay me down in the back?" 

His cheeks burned in shame, but the driver only gave him a concerned look and a "Yes, of course." Once he'd laid Peter down, he tried once again to get the boy to call someone. Peter once again refused. The driver sighed, shut the door, climbed into the driver's seat, and started up the car.

The ride was mostly silent, an awkward kind of silence that made Peter's hands itch with the urge to do something. The burning only increased with the knowledge that he could do nothing. He couldn't even sit up on his own. He was helpless.

It was a helplessness of a sort he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with. 

Have you ever edged your way into a group of people and tried to make yourself noticed, and realized you are helpless to make them want you? Have you ever tried and tried to stop the demons laying siege to your mind and eventually just stopped, knowing you are helpless to make yourself free?

Have you ever fought to be happy, even when you can feel the edges of your stability crumbling, and known that you are helpless against your own mind?

In trying to free himself from his mental helplessness, Peter realized, he'd only succeeded in making it physical. 

Which was worse, mental or physical?

Only time would tell.

 

* * *

 

Ned's house slowly drifted into view. It was a small, slightly cramped two-story house in the suburbs, in a place that was almost far enough downtown to be questionably safe but not quite. The paint was falling off in places, and the roof needed to be re-tiled. Two cars sat out on the driveway, as the house didn't have a garage. Both were a little on the beaten and worn side. 

When had he last been here? Peter wondered. It had to have been months ago. Maybe four, but as little as two. Definitely more than one.

As the Uber driver pulled up alongside the curb, the front door opened and Ned came running out. Underneath his tan skin there was a gray pallor, and his face was drawn and tense. He ran up to the driver.

"Do you have Peter?"

"If you mean the guy in the backseat, then yes. He's not looking good though, man. I tried to get him to go to the ER but he refused. Maybe you can give it a go?"

I'm right here, Peter wanted to say. He kept his mouth shut and stared at the back of the seat.

"Yeah, he has a...thing about medical care. He, um, it's- bad memories. He once...peed his pants when he was little and now he never wants to go back again."

"I did not!" Peter exclaimed indignantly.

Ned gave the driver an awkward look. "He repressed it. Anyway, about the fare, I have that covered. How much?"

"Actually, your friend - Peter? - he already paid. In cash. You're free to take him and go. But I guess I should warn you that he can't, well, I don't think he can walk."

Ned nodded shortly. "He told me."

"He's right here, listening!" Peter said grumpily. They ignored him.

"If you need help carrying him inside, I can help you out. You know, just in case." The driver scratched his neck, looking a little embarrassed.

"No, I got him. He's really not that heavy. Thanks for the offer, though. I - we - appreciate it." Ned gave a short smile.

"Anytime, man." 

Ned opened the door to the backseat. Unfortunately, it was the one next to Peter's head, so Peter had to uncomfortably crane his neck upwards in order to look Ned in the eyes. Up close, Ned looked even worse: his eyes were red-lined and bloodshot, as though he'd been forcefully wiping tears away. His bottom lip looked red, almost bloody - he'd always had a habit of biting it when he was stressed. Faintly, Peter wondered what he himself looked like in comparison.

"Hey, Pete," Ned said quietly.

"Hey, Ned." 

There was a beat of silence. Peter had no idea what to say. Had this been a month ago, he probably would've cracked a joke or muttered a complaint. But now so much had gone wrong and he had no idea where he stood with Ned, the boy who'd been his best friend and was now...nothing. Or almost nothing. 'Almosts' always hurt the most.

"I..." Ned hesitated. For once, he seemed lost for words, something that never happened with him. He bit his lip. "Peter, I...look. I'm gonna get the full story out of you at some point, okay? But right now I'm just gonna try and get you home."

"Yeah. Okay."

Ned reached in and grabbed Peter, hefting him clumsily into a fireman's carry. As soon as Ned tried to move Peter's right arm, Peter let out an involuntary cry of pain. Ned jerked back, eyes wide.

"Sorry," Peter said. "B-broken wrist."

Ned let out a soft curse. "That too?"

The walk back up the driveway and into Ned's house was slow and arduous. A faint tingling sensation was racing up and down Peter's body. It wasn't painful but it was uncomfortable and a little unnerving. He was relieved when Ned fumbled the door open and stepped inside.

The inside of the house reflected its outside. It was worn, a little dirty, and needed repairs. The carpet covering most of the house was stained in places and in others was so thin it looked practically nonexistent. A couple walls had cracks in them, and the dishwasher didn't work properly. Peter could remember all too well the days he and Ned had had to hand-wash every dish they'd used.

"Who's home?"

"Mom and Dad are both out, we're fine." Ned was an only child, just like Peter.

Ned clumsily shut the door. With a grunt, he lay Peter down on a nearby sofa, and plopped down beside.

"So," he said. "What happened?"

Peter stiffened. A strange, nerve-like pain ran through his back like a shock. He winced. "I, uh..."

When no answer came forth, Ned frowned. He wasn't used to the person Peter was now. Peter had changed too much. He'd withdrawn, he'd lied, he'd become isolated. He no longer knew how to tell the truth. He no longer knew how to talk like he used to. 

"Did this happen as Spider-Man?" 

"No."

"Did you get mugged?"

It would be so easy to lie. It would be so easy to just say yes and pretend he'd never felt that desperate and never would again. 

"...No."

Ned heaved a sigh. "C'mon man, you gotta tell me something. I'm your guy in the chair! We're teammates and all that. We don't have secrets."

"Are you?" The words were exhausted and angry all at once.

"What?"

 _"Are_ you my guy in the chair?"

Ned straightened. "Of course I am! Peter, how can you even ask that?"

"You haven't been, though," Peter said softly. "Not for weeks. Months, almost."

"Because you didn't seem like you wanted my help! You weren't talking to me, you wouldn't even look at me! You-" Ned cut himself off and huffed. "Look, let's talk about that later, okay? We have something more important to talk about right now."

More important? What was more important: the cause or the effect?

But Peter looked away, conceding the fight. He was too tired to argue. 

"Again, what happened? If it wasn't a mugging, how the  _fuck_ did you get  _paralyzed,_ Peter? This isn't your normal shtick anymore. This isn't a bruise or, or a cut or something that you can slap a bandaid over and it's fine. What the hell aren't you telling me?"

Peter opened his mouth. The words wouldn't come out. "I, I, I was web-slinging and eating-"

Ned crossed his arms. "Peter."

"...I fell. Off an, um, a skyscraper."

Ned didn't say anything, but Peter could tell he didn't believe the story.

"And the reason I didn't die was because I, I kinda...redirected the force on my body so instead of falling forwards I went through one of the windows of the building, and the impact...it paralyzed me."

"You expect me to believe you fell?" Ned laughed, but it sounded forced. "Dude, just tell me the truth. Did Vulture come back or something? Cause if he did, he's in trouble. With me."

"What would you even do?" Peter asked with a slightly less forced snort. "Throw your chair at him?"

"Hey, it's a nice chair, I wouldn't do that. Maybe a stapler or something." Ned sobered. "But seriously. You've been going through  _something_ lately. I promise you can tell me about it."

"I..." Peter stared at Ned. He was reliable, stable, supportive. Peter had never, never gone to Ned and been turned away. But this was different.

 _How?_ Mr. Stark's voice was back.  _How is this any worse than when you went to him about your parents' deaths or about Ben's death?_

Because  _I'm_ the problem this time, Peter responded.

"Peter, c'mon. Talk to me. Please. I need to know what happened to help you."

"I..."

 _You can trust him._ Mr. Stark's voice was gentle now. 

"I didn't just fall." Peter took a deep breath. "I jumped."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited this like four times but I'm sure I still missed some typos/grammatical errors, so if you see something wrong, tell me. 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter almost made me cry when I was writing the first scene? I can write an attempted suicide without crying but as soon as we start talking about feelings I'm gone. Go figure. 
> 
> I'm currently trying to balance how I know Marvel portrayed Peter, Ned, Tony, May, etc. with my interpretation of them and - the big thing - my own emotions. As many of you know, I started this fic as a vent, which means Peter's characterization was the kind of characterization where there isn't one. Or at least not an accurate one. I'm trying to make him more accurate, along with everyone else, but it's a work in progress.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and support!


	10. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who asked if I'm updating this soon.

Hey guys. So I'm gonna be straight up and say that I normally dislike author's notes and avoid them as much as possible but enough of y'all were asking the same question that I felt it was necessary. 

The questions that are being asked are: am I going to be updating this fic, am I going to be completing this fic, will I update soon...etc.

And that's where this gets complicated. Midway through April, a teacher who was close to me (someone I knew for half of my life) passed away from stage four cancer. As I'm Christian, I believe I'll see him again one day, but that doesn't make the loss of him or the pain his wife and kids are going through any easier. I've gone from grieving to more severely depressed than I've been in years and I just haven't been able to write a story where Peter gets better. Because around me, everything is only getting worse. I can't actually imagine a reality where the dozen of things I have wrong with me get better.

Peter was finally starting to recover, just in telling someone he tried to kill himself. I myself haven't even gotten that far; I've told no one anything about my suicide plans - except now several hundred people on the Internet. Go figure. But the main point is that I can't imagine myself ever getting better, and I can't write Peter getting better if I can't believe I, with many of the same problems as Peter, can get better.

Not feeling alone feels like a forever impossibility. Whether that's true, I'll find out eventually. Until then I won't be updating this fic. Or probably any fic. I suppose you can call this writer's block if you'd like. I just can't put words to anything anymore. I think it likely that I'll probably finish this eventually, but it will take weeks at least. Maybe months.

Stay safe, all of you. Don't let my loss of hope affect your hope as well. I love all of you and I hope you will continue the journey Peter started here, even if I never finish writing it. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back? 
> 
> Seeing as it's been such a long time since I last updated, I'd recommend rereading at least the past two chapters, if not the whole fic (actually on second thoughts don't reread the first five chapters cause they need a massive rewrite lol). Otherwise you'll probably be like me when I read fics the author updates after, like, FIVE YEARS and I don't even remember the characters' names.

There was an instant of silence; a withheld breath; and for a moment everything was frozen.

Then Ned said, "Not- you weren't- please tell me you didn't..."

Peter looked away. The emptiness, the lack of sensation in his body was paralleled by the lack of feeling in his mind. He felt utterly numb except for the phantom pains racing up his spine or through his heart. He knew, logically, that he should be feeling something, be it anxiety or pain or sadness. But all he felt was empty. Numb.

So Peter stared at the worn carpet and whispered two words that tore at his throat to get out. "I did."

As long seconds of silence passed, shame slowly blossomed inside Peter's chest. He was supposed to be too strong to jump. He was supposed to be too weak to survive it.

Now here he was in the uncomfortable in-between that was so much worse than what the stories told you it was. Because what the stories said, what the books and movies and songs said, were all wrong. They said it was freeing, finally telling someone about it. They said it was a relief, a breath of air after years spent suffocating.

But Peter didn't feel any of that. Here in real life Peter lay there, helpless. Helpless to Ned's reaction. Helpless to his own suffering. 

Real life wasn't romantic; real life wasn't one and done. Here in real life, telling someone about your suicide attempt wasn't a relief and it wasn't freeing. It was devastatingly awkward and humiliating and terrifying. It was baring your battered, broken soul and showing it to someone who might take it and throw it away and say,  _I thought you were better than that._

The jumbled echo of those words -  _I wanted you to be better -_ never left Peter's ears as he lay there and waited for Ned to speak. This whole debacle was brown and gray and gritty. A dull ringing had beset his ears and he found it increasing the longer Ned stayed silent. 

"Peter," Ned said finally, and his voice sounded choked. "Peter, I don't know what to say, but this- this- I-"

And then something like a strangled sob wrenched itself from Ned's throat and he surged forward and hugged Peter. It was awkward and stiff and a spasm screamed through Peter's spine at the movement, but he was too numb to care. 

"I'm s-so glad you- you're alive," Ned got out, pulling back. "Please, please promise me you won't- won't do that a-again."

Peter turned his head so he couldn't see Ned. The emptiness was suffocating him. He should be feeling something, he should be angry or relieved or sad or  _something._ But all he could say was, "Well, I couldn't even if I wanted to. Not anymore."

There was more silence. Ned must've not had any idea how to respond to that- not to mention how uncharacteristic it was of Peter to say in the first place. But, finally, he broke the silence that had once more grown awkward.

"How long have you been...thinking about it?"

Sudden, virulent anger swirled through Peter's chest, shocking the numbness out of him - shocking Peter with its fury. How dare Ned ask. How dare he act like he cared after all this time. How dare he, how dare he, how dare he.

"It's none of your business," Peter snapped defensively.

Ned sighed, expression going from scared and devastated to slightly annoyed. This, at least, was more common. It wasn't unusual for Peter - teenager, orphan, vigilante superhero - to have sudden bursts of anger. Peter was funny, a bit naive, and extremely sweet. Unfortunately, that didn't mean he couldn't also have a short temper. Ned was used to dealing with that.

"Peter, you called me up in the middle of the night saying you were paralyzed. You called me and came to myhouse, not to mention you're mybest friend. This is my business!"

Instead of arguing back, Peter released a breath and gave in. "Weeks. Maybe a couple months."

Ned's face pinched as though the news were painful. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

Peter stayed silent again. The words that itched to come out -  _because I didn't think you'd care -_ were ones he couldn't say. If they weren't true, they would hurt Ned. If they were, Peter didn't want to hear the response.

"Peter."

"You were...busy," he got out reluctantly. "With Jace. I didn't think you..."

"Dammit, Peter!" Ned looked surprisingly angry. Peter couldn't remember the last time Ned had been angry at him. "Does 'best friends' mean nothing to you anymore? You can come to me about anything. I thought you knew that."

Before he could stop himself Peter said, "Best friends means something to me, but I'm not so sure about you."

There. He'd said it. The words that'd been burning in his throat for months.

Ned stopped short and stiffened. He looked Peter up and down as though he'd never seen the boy before in his life. "What did you just say?"

"Nothing." Anger was rising inside Peter's chest. "Just how, for months, you've been hanging out with this kid I've never even formally met,going over to his house, posting stuff on Snapchat, going to see the new Star Wars film you promised you'd see with  _me,_ and generally acting as though he's your best friend now, not me! Or how whenever we did make plans, you conveniently 'forgot,' except you were just hanging out with Jace instead! Or how you've been ignoring me for weeks,and now you're only here because you pity poor, sad Penis Parker who jumped off a fucking building because he knew no one would stop him!"

Peter glared up at Ned, too angry to regret or even think twice about what he'd just said. His chest heaved with the rapidity of his angered breaths and his pulse pounded with the recklessness of a runaway train. He just felt angry, so angry, and powerless, helpless now that he couldn't even move his legs on his own. 

"Ignoring you? You ignored me! You wouldn't even look at me, you walked away when I tried talking to you, you-"

Ned cut himself short with a huff. He ran a hand over his face. Peter noticed a drop of blood gleam on his bottom lip. "Look, Peter, I don't want to fight you. I mean, fuck dude, you're- you're  _paralyzed._ There's obviously a big miscommunication going on here that's been going on for months. I know we haven't hung out for awhile. I know I've been hanging out with Jace a lot. But none of that's ever gonna change who you are to me, Pete."

Peter looked away again. He couldn't let himself believe what Ned was saying. 

"Now I dunno 'bout you but I'm exhausted. Like, all-nighters for school are one thing but tomorrow's a freaking Saturday and I'm caught up on all my homework for once. What do you say we go to bed and we talk about this tomorrow?"

Peter opened his mouth, shut it, considered. "I...I guess so."

"Good. I'll go get some blankets. Be right back."

 

* * *

 

"Boss," came FRIDAY's voice, "there is a recently published news article that might catch your interest."

Tony barely heard her over the din of Metallica and the job he was working on. He was in the middle of updating Rhodey's War Machine suit. He was trying to incorporate nanotech the way he was starting to in his own suits. He wanted to perfect it on the Iron Man suit before he fully transferred it over to Rhodey's suit, but he couldn't help but want to see what a prototype would be like. So far, it was working beautifully.

"Can you say that again? I couldn't hear you."

The music dimmed. A little louder the AI repeated, "There is a newly published news report that will interest you."

Tony huffed and waved a hand dismissively at the ceiling. He flipped the holographic version of the suit around a bit. "Unless New York's being invaded again, I don't really care. I'm a little busy here."

"I believe it is about Mr. Parker."

Now Tony was starting to get annoyed. He'd just been on the brink of a new idea. Now his AI just had to distract him with some stupid news article about Peter rescuing a cat from a tree. He'd specifically programmed FRIDAY to know when to disturb him and when not to. Had she forgotten that line of code that read 'work, DO NOT DISTURB'?

"Fri, I told you, unless it's important-"

"Mr. Parker's life is at risk. According to protocol A-58, I am to alert you of any possible danger pertaining to him."

A quick intake of breath. The hologram flicked off. Tony summoned his suit with a snap of his wrist. "What?"

"Forwarding report now."

A holographic report flickered to life in front of him. A quick glance showed that it had been written at 11 PM - more than two hours ago, as it was now past one in the morning. He wondered briefly why it had taken FRIDAY so long to report it, and why, if Peter's life was in danger, the suit vitals-

"FRIDAY," he was faintly aware that his heartbeat was a little faster than medically advised, "give me Peter's vitals."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. Mr. Parker is not currently in his suit and has not been since yesterday at 11:49 PM."

Tony's jaw clenched, as did his heart. He was liking this less and less. He stepped into his suit as he hastily scanned over the report.

At first he was confused. The article didn't even mention Spider-Man, much less Peter Parker. All it said was that a teenager of about sixteen years of age had been spotted jumping off one of the highest skyscrapers in New York City - more specifically, Queens. Tony skimmed past that rapidly, expecting that it'd go on to say that Spider-Man had miraculously appeared and saved the kid before they hit the bottom.

But then it got weird. Apparently, according to an eyewitness - a woman who claimed to have made eye contact with the kid while they were falling - the teenager had suddenly disappeared. The quote from the eyewitness claimed that the kid - a boy - had somehow done some sort of flip and gone through the windows of the building he'd been falling from. When asked why she hadn't tried to enter the building herself to find him, she answered that the doors had been locked. She'd called the police, but by the time they got there and searched the building, the kid was nowhere to be found.

All this was odd, Tony admitted, but he didn't understand how Peter's life was in danger.

"FRIDAY," he said as patiently as he could, forcing himself to take deep breaths, "I think you gave me the wrong article. Where's the part about Spider-Man?"

But even as FRIDAY started to speak, a sudden bad feeling sank into his chest. She hadn't said there was a news article about Spider-Man. She'd said there was one about Peter Parker.

"Based on facial recognition done by satellites during the event, I have reason to believe that the teenager in question was Mr. Parker. I have run several simulations based on the eyewitness report and believe that even though he managed to escape instant death via falling, diverting his fall in that manner could lead to severe injuries such as, but not limited to, spinal contusions, shattered wrist, hand, or other bones, and partial or complete paraly-"

"Enough! Okay, enough. Get me a location on his-  _shit,_ he still probably doesn't have a fucking phone- I want facial recognition on a perimeter of five blocks surrounding the area, as well as on his usual patrol route and anywhere else he frequents."

"Got it, boss. Would you like me to contact May Parker?"

For the first time Tony hesitated. He was acutely aware of his heart's unsteady pounding through his chest. He wasn't sure what was going on right now. The fact that the police had searched the building and hadn't found Peter most likely meant the kid was alive. As far as he knew there was no one currently trying to murder Peter, which meant he was 'safe.' Quote-unquote. 

However, there was something he really didn't like about this. Something he didn't want to think about and would not, in fact, think about unless he was forced to. He wasn't sure his anxiety-ridden heart could handle it.

Because what he  _really_ didn't like wasn't the fact that Peter - if it  _were_ Peter, because there was a chance it wasn't - had jumped. No, when you had a kid with the ability to throw webs and stick to things, jumping off buildings was the least of your worries. What bothered Tony wasn't that Peter jumped. It was that Peter hadn't had the suit on.

As in he hadn't jumped in order to save someone from falling, like Tony had originally assumed. As in he didn't have his webslingers on him. As in Peter had jumped off a skyscraper with no way of saving himself. And he'd done it on purpose.

That bothered Tony. And maybe he should call May, but he was scared to, because what would he, could he say? But on the other hand, what _should_ he say?

"No." Tony shook his head. Avoidance was one of his main policies and he would stick by it. "Don't contact May."

"As you wish, boss."

Tony stepped out onto the compound's launch pad, fired his propulsors, and was off.

 

* * *

 

It was past three in the morning when Tony finally found Peter. Or, more accurately, when FRIDAY did. 

At this point, Tony'd been scouring the rooftops for almost two hours, hoping against hope he'd find the kid there somewhere. He could feel his brain function decreasing with each passing minute and knew he needed to get sleep. He'd already been awake for thirty hours straight, working in his lab, and his brain was running on fumes. He wasn't going to be of much help to Peter in this state, but even shitty help was better than nothing at all.

Even so, Tony was a few minutes away from giving up when his AI's voice rang in his suit.

"Boss, I believe I've found him."

Even though Tony was standing solidly on a rooftop, he still jumped, both at the unexpected sound and at the news. Barely taking a breath, he asked, "Where is he?" 

"He appears to be inside a small house in Queens, around a fifteen minutes' walk away from his own house. As far as I can tell, this is one of his friend's houses."

Friends. Friends. Tony wracked his brain, trying to remember if Peter had ever mentioned any of his friends to him. It took several long seconds for him to recall the name of that kid who'd hacked the Spider-Man suit. Ned Leeds.

Hopefully, this kid was as good at taking care of Peter as he was hacking.

"Would you like me to plot a route there?" FRIDAY asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Again, he hesitated. He wanted to make sure Peter was alive and okay. He hadn't been able to get their conversation of several weeks ago out of his head. He was responsible for hurting the kid, intentional or not, and at the very least he owed Peter a visit. 

Plus. The whole jumping off a building thing. Was a bit...a bit not good. It reminded Tony too much of himself, himself and New York and the missile. Except Peter didn't even have the saving the world excuse - not that, according to Tony's therapist,  _that_ was a good excuse either. 

But, despite how much Tony might want to go to that house and grab Peter by the shoulders and force him to understand that what he did was not and could never be okay, Tony knew Peter didn't want to see him. After all, how could he? Tony had screwed the kid over since the first day he'd walked into Peter's life. He'd taken the kid to fucking Germany and told him to fight a bunch of super-powered humans. Then he'd taken the kid's suit and forced him to fight the Vulture in a pair of pajamas. Then he'd...

Tony swallowed. Unbidden, a thought came to him.

_Did he jump because of me?_

The thought was so horrific he choked on it. A deep, visceral pain throbbed through him and he found himself clenching his fists around a railing. It crumpled into bits but he didn't care. 

Distantly, something his therapist said echoed through his brain. She'd said that he had an unhealthy tendency to blame himself for everything and that that guilt made his anxiety worse.

 _Hah,_ he thought almost apathetically,  _worse? That's like saying a hill turning into an erupting volcano is worse._

Tony's heart clenched and his chest tightened and his pulse throbbed faster, faster, faster. He fumbled desperately around his wrist for the button that released his suit and, once it was off, fell to his knees next to the shattered railing.

 _Look at that,_ his brain muttered, and Tony looked at it.  _It's broken because of you. Just like your parents. Just like Pepper. Just like Peter._

Tony ripped his gaze away from the rails. Unfortunately, the only other place to look was the ground.

For a moment he looked, and he-

No. 

 _Fucking anxiety,_ he thought, forcing his eyes to instead rest on his hands.  _Fuck it. Just fuck it._

Over the years since New York, he'd picked up a ragtag list of coping mechanisms for his panic attacks. One especially helpful one consisted of him cursing out his anxiety until his breathing got steadier. It was like the distraction technique most therapists recommended except a thousand times better.

So Tony sat there, his suit floating above him, pieces of broken rail beside him, and he forced himself to calm down. 

"Boss?" It was FRIDAY's voice, projected from the suit. She sounded like she'd been talking for awhile, but Tony had only just now heard her. 

"Yeah, Fri?"

Pause. The AI seemed to be thinking of what to say. Maybe she hadn't expected he'd actually respond. "As you know, you've just experienced a severe panic attack. I recommend resting before you attempt anything strenuous."

"Thanks for the recommendation, but I'll pass," Tony said. He stood up. "Plot a course to that kid's house. I need to make sure Peter's alright."

"Of course. Plotting course now."

Tony stepped back into the suit and was off.

And in the back of his brain, if there were a tiny voice still whispering,  _this is your fault, Tony, this is all your fault -_ well, Tony had spent years learning to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Telling people when you're hurting isn't fun. I know the drill. You wonder if you're burdening them. You anticipate the shame in your throat when they finally discover who you really are. You can't bear the thought of rejection, so you never give them the chance to reject.
> 
> Telling someone isn't fun. I know. It wasn't fun for me. It was awkward and embarrassing and I ended up, a lot like Peter, getting super defensive and angry. But here's the thing: if you never tell anyone, you destroy the potential for growth. You can try and hermit talk me all you like, but there's no way you can climb through depression on your own. Unless you're telling me you're so much better than I that you're practically God, at which point that's useless because God doesn't have depression.
> 
> My point is, you can't do this alone. If you take anything from me, take that. God created us for community. Whether you believe in him or not, you can't deny that we need it. So take that step. Reach out. I believe in you.


	12. Chapter 12

Loneliness was a special breed of death.

It wore away at you, day by day. Some days you couldn't even feel it. Some days you thought you'd finally shaken it off. But then you'd wake up at three a.m., staring up at the ceiling and not knowing why your chest  _hurt._ And then you'd realize, a bitter smile tugging at your lips, that it was because of a dream. A dream, a fantasy where for once you'd been known, truly known, and wanted and loved despite that. 

It hadn't been the dream that had hurt. 

It had been waking up and knowing it was false.

If you'd asked Peter where it hurt, he wouldn't have been able to tell you. Some days he'd lay there and stare up into nothing and think, and he'd swear he could feel right where it hurt, a visceral ache right below his sternum. But if he pressed a finger there, if he tried to find the physical pain from the mental, there'd be nothing. 

It was those days he wondered if he were actually insane, to feel a pain that wasn't even there.

(But isn't all pain just in your head?)

(Does that make it any less real?)

Peter lay on the couch and stared up into nothing and thought. As soon as Ned had fallen asleep, he'd tried to sit up on his own. Other than a strange, tingling sensation, he'd found he was able to. It was definitely harder seeing as he could only use his arms, but Peter's strength meant it wasn't a challenge. He was relieved that at least he could do something.

Ned was asleep on the love seat to the right of the couch. Peter could make out his slow, steady breathing. It should've reassured him. It didn't. Instead, he only thought of darkness and death and the knowledge that he'd tried and failed.

(But had he failed?)

It wasn't simply the loneliness that ate at him, Peter decided finally. His eyes caught on the faint, red light of the kitchen clock. It read 3:37. His aching, helpless body agreed.

Loneliness was a special breed of death. But all illnesses had underlying causes. Peter wondered if sometimes, sometimes loneliness was simply...unavoidable. Just as some people were born blind or with tumors or Tourette's, maybe some people were just born like this. Born to be lonely.

The thought burned, echoing the sting in Peter's eyes.

But why? Why him?

He took a deep breath. He recalled exactly how much it had hurt to see Ned with Jace. He remembered the blood-numbing rejection of being ignored by Happy day after day. He remembered the bitterness he tried so hard to quench but couldn't quite quell whenever Mr. Stark made the news.

It was more than that. Those three incidents were but the latest in a string of rejections, a necklace built of suffering instead of jewels. Peter let his mind run over the string, recalling each rejection, the reflection of each memory nearly blinding him.

It was then, as the clock hit 3:43, that Peter took a slow, deep breath. 

He felt inferior. He felt less than. He felt like he had never once been good enough for anyone, and never would be. 

He wanted to say that he  _was_ all of those things - he was so, so tempted. But something in the back of his brain reminded him that feelings were temporary and often false. It told him never to define himself by his feelings.

That didn't mean he couldn't still hurt.

The thought, the feeling made sense, made sense in a way that was somewhere between relieving and horrifying and illuminating all at once. It explained so much. He felt inferior because he'd never truly believed that his aunt and uncle had chosen him. He'd always felt like a charity case that had been shoved their way, and no matter how much he loved them and knew he was loved back, that thought had always simmered at the back of his mind.

He felt inferior because he hadn't been good enough to stop Uncle Ben's death, not good enough to stop so many muggings and robberies and murders after that. He felt inferior because he was the least known superhero, the least loved, the last resort that no one really wanted on the team except for pity. He felt inferior because he'd never been  _chosen._ No one had ever looked straight at him and said that they wanted him,Peter Parker, as everything he was, good and bad. 

(Maybe that was because  _he_ didn't even know who he was?)

He wanted to be needed. He needed to be wanted. But as he was now, he was second-best - no, not even that. He was last. He was least.

Peter's gaze flicked away from the clock, up to the blank white ceiling. There was something about those thoughts in his head that made him feel so completely powerless. As if there was nothing he could do, and no one he could hope to become. 

For a moment, his gaze slid past the ceiling, his mind's eye passing to the night-darkened sky. And deep within him, his despair and hopelessness crystallized into a single, solitary plea. 

_Please, God, if you're there...help me._

Silence.

Peter huffed a bitter, silent laugh. He hadn't expected anything to happen. 

(But yet he'd still asked?)

How many times had he cast his thoughts to the heavens and asked for help from the one being who was supposed to know everything about him and love him anyway? How many times had he begged, tears burning in his eyes, sobs burning in his throat, for salvation? How many times had he received...nothing. Silence.

(Or was it just that Peter wasn't listening?)

He remembered, once, in elementary school, he and Ned had been part of a friend group, five in all. Peter had walked into school early one day, before Ned and most of the others. Jayden was there already; Peter had gone up to him with a wave and a smile and been about to speak when Jayden had looked over. He'd eyed Peter with something approaching ambivalence and said, "Oh, you? I was hoping it'd be Ned instead."

Peter had blinked, shocked and hurt, and stammered out something about that being rude. Jayden had smiled and laughed and said he was joking, to not take that so seriously.

But Peter had never been able to see why someone would even think about saying something like that unless it were true.

That hadn't been an isolated incident in his past. It had happened again and again and again, with different people and in different circumstances but always the same idea. Uncle Ben taking Aunt May out for a date when Peter'd asked for his help with a science project; a friend brushing past him without so much as a hello; a teacher refusing to answer a question, calling Peter stupid for not knowing the answer already. A thousand wounds, a thousand rejections.

Peter realized that he resented them. He resented each and every one of them. And, in a way, he resented the people who had given them.

Right before Peter had been given the offer to join the Avengers, as Happy was driving him to the compound, he'd talked to him. He'd told Peter about what was happening and Peter had gaped, utterly shocked at first but calming down once Happy had warned him to act suitably shocked when Tony revealed everything. 

"Don't worry about joining us, kid," Happy had said then. "We have others. You aren't our only option."

The reasonable part of Peter had said that Happy was simply trying to reassure him that he didn't have to join the Avengers out of a sense of duty. 

But the only thing he'd heard was  _you aren't necessary._

A thousand rejections; a thousand resentments. He could see now that that was what fueled so much of his loneliness. He was angry and afraid: angry at past slights, afraid of future ones. He was incapable of forgetting the past. He was incapable of living the future.

If Peter could have, he would've curled up into a ball and buried his face into the couch cushions. As it was, only his arms moved, curling around him as if to shield him.

 _Please,_ he thought again, his gaze flicking upwards once more,  _please help me._

There came a knock on the door.

Peter jolted. An agonizing throb in his spine echoed the movement and Peter let out a low cry. He whipped his head around to look at Ned, who was sound asleep. 

The knock came again.

Peter's eyes flashed towards the door and he cursed himself for being so helpless. There could be a burglar or- or a serial killer  _right_ _there_ and he could do absolutely nothing about it. He was completely and utterly powerless.

Another knock, this one more a pound. Peter had just enough time to realize that a burglar probably wouldn't bother to knock when a familiar voice said, "I know Peter's in here. Please, I need to see him."

Ned moved and mumbled something.

Peter hesitated. He couldn't remember the last time that Tony Stark had said please. 

"Ned, wake up. Someone's at the door."

As if to reiterate the point, Mr. Stark pounded at the door again, this time almost violently. "I'm not leaving until I see him," he said, and his voice was exhausted and desperate all at once. "I just want to see that he's okay."

Ned finally opened his eyes. "Wha-" he started, then his eyes abruptly widened. "Is that a burglar at the door?"

Peter snorted. "A burglar wouldn't knock, stupid."

"Hey, watch who you're calling stupid," Ned grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Say what you will, but  _I_ have never sprayed Febreeze in a fan as a quick way to deodorize myself."

"Th-that's not- that doesn't count!" Peter protested, reddening despite himself. "I was copying a meme!"

Mr. Stark pounded on the door again.

"Seriously," Ned said, "Who the hell is knocking at the door at ass o'clock in the morning?"

"Uh," Peter said, "Tony Stark."

Ned looked at him for a long moment. "Tony Stark," he said flatly.

"Yeah." 

Ned thought for a long moment punctuated by another knock and demand. "You know what," he said finally, "I don't care  _who_ is at my door. Jesus Christ himself could be at my door but if the sun isn't up yet, I don't give a flying fuck."

So saying, Ned nodded, stood, and walked to the door. He opened it right as Mr. Stark began to knock again. 

"Are you Ned?" Mr. Stark asked in the same exhausted, desperate tone he'd been using.

"Yeah. Uh, so I-I, normally I'd, um, ask for an autograph but uh..." despite all Ned's supposed bravado, Peter was amused to see he was still a stammering mess when faced with Tony Stark. "You're kinda...outside my house. At four in the morning. That's, um...kinda stalker-ish. No offense."

"Is Peter here?" Mr. Stark asked as though Ned hadn't even spoken. "Is he alright?"

"Peter? Yeah, he's- he's, well..."

Mr. Stark pushed past Ned like he wasn't even there, leaving a stunned and half-awed, half-offended teenager behind. The man surveyed the house for an instant; then his eyes found Peter's. The utter relief in them was astounding.

"Peter," Mr. Stark breathed, "You're okay."

He strode to him, spanning the distance in four quick strides. Ned tagged along behind, looking completely out of his depth. Mr. Stark stopped right in front of the couch and just stood for a moment, eyes running over Peter. Then he opened his arms.

Peter stared. "Mr. Stark..."

Something flashed across the man's face and he dropped his arms as though he'd been burned. "Sorry, I..."

"No, Mr. Stark, it's not that I don't-" Peter stopped. Looked at Ned.

"Uh, Mr. Stark," Ned said. "Peter is...he can't..."

Peter clenched a hand, felt his nails digging into his palm. "I can't...stand. I'm..."

He couldn't make himself say the last word.

"Kid, could you step out for a bit? I want to talk to Peter alone."

Despite how it was worded, all three understood it wasn't a request.

Ned nodded wordlessly and left, taking the stairs and disappearing into his room. Mr. Stark hovered for a moment, then sat down on the love seat. Peter forced himself to sit up straight. It felt off, but he didn't care. He would take any amount of strangeness if he could at least sit with dignity.

There was silence for a long moment.

"Peter-"

"Mr. Stark-"

They looked at each other.

"You, uh..." Mr. Stark gave a nervous laugh. "Mind repeating what you never actually said?"

Peter looked down. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. Finally he managed to get out four words. "Mr. Stark, I'm paralyzed."

He wished, suddenly, that he'd had the courage to say four different words, before all this had happened. He wished he'd had the courage to say, "Mr. Stark, I'm depressed." He wished he'd had the humility to say to Aunt May, "Please, I need help." If he had only said something before...

...maybe he wouldn't have had to whisper these words that tore out his heart.

Mr. Stark swallowed, loud enough that Peter heard it. "O-Okay. I was really hoping you'd say something else. I...shit. We need to get you to the emergency room, we need to get you checked out-"

"N-No," Peter stammered out, fear freezing his blood. "I can't go to hospitals, they'll run tests and see I'm not- not human. I can't out myself, I can't risk that. Please, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. For a moment Peter thought he'd insist on it, and Peter would have to fight back - because there was no way,  _no way,_ he was risking having his identity revealed. Even for something like this.

"Fine," Mr. Stark forced out, finally, through his teeth. "But only because I know you'd fight me if I made you, and I don't want you injuring yourself more. I'm gonna call in a specialist, someone trustworthy and used to dealing with abnormal physiology. You aren't going to _move_ until then. And don't even tryto get out of that, you hear me?"

Peter meekly nodded.

"Okay, we," Mr. Stark broke off and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked far more distressed than Peter had expected him to. With a flash of understanding, he remembered what had happened to Colonel Rhodes. That must be why he looked so upset. Because, of course, it couldn't be  _Peter._ "I have contacts, I have the money, I'll do whatever it takes, okay? I'll build you your own legs, I'll- we'll  _fix_ you, Peter-"

"There is no fixing me," Peter broke in roughly, desperately, "I can't be fixed!"

Mr. Stark seemed to deflate. His previous exhaustion seeped back into him. Both of them knew what Peter had really meant.

"Maybe not," Mr. Stark said quietly, "but at least I can help you."

They looked at each other once more, and a mutual understanding passed between them.

"Mr. Stark," Peter said after a moment, "how did you know where to find me? I don't have the suit."

The man blew out a long breath. The usual dark circles under his eyes had increased at least tenfold. Peter wondered if he'd been up all night.

"FRIDAY notified me of a strange news report at around one. Something about, I don't know, a teenage kid jumping off a building?" He narrowed his eyes at Peter. "Don't think you can get out of talking about that, by the way. I might not do mushy-mushy feels good, but  _that-_ that is a whole 'nother ball park. She said that the satellite footage had caught someone similar in appearance to you, and as part of the Baby Monitor Protocol, she had to tell me. We've been searching for hours. As soon as we found you..."

"Oh." 

"Yeah, 'oh.' You're really lucky you have powers, you know?" Mr. Stark looked at Peter almost pleadingly. "If you didn't...FRIDAY ran the simulations. Even diverting your fall like that wouldn't have been enough."

Peter looked at the worn carpet. He took a deep breath. "I'm not sure I wanted it to be."

Mr. Stark didn't say anything, just waited for Peter to go on. Peter considered trying to backpedal, but he doubted the man would let him.

"When I was falling," he started slowly, "it was like everything slowed down around me. I, I didn't- I don't think I would've stopped myself."

"But you did. Why?"

"There was," Peter said, "there was a woman. She saw me falling and she, she, she-"

Peter let out a shuddering sort of gasp. He covered his mouth with a hand that trembled. Mr. Stark reached forward as if on instinct before seeming to think better of it and drawing back. 

"She was gonna catch me. She was. I...I'm, I know I'm not some sort of big-shot hero, I'm not like  _you,_ but I, I save the little guy, right? If I'd hit her, we'd both have died. I couldn't let that happen. So I didn't."

"Peter," Mr. Stark said softly, his face almost pained.

"If she hadn't been there..." Peter swallowed. He tried to finish that sentence and found he couldn't. 

Mr. Stark looked at Peter with a sad sort of understanding and finished it for him. "You wouldn't have stopped yourself."

Peter just looked down.

Mr. Stark heaved a sigh, but he didn't look angry or even disappointed. He just nodded a few times. "Okay, so here's what we're gonna do. You're gonna have to break the news to your aunt at some point. Doesn't have to be tonight, but you can't avoid it forever. Then we're gonna get you hooked up with some doctors, a therapist or two, and we'll go on from there. Capiche?" 

"A-A therapist?"

"Yep. Don't even try and get out of that one, kiddo. You're going to one whether you want to or not. Same goes for the doctors." Mr. Stark paused, and Peter could tell he really didn't like the idea of not getting Peter checked out. Peter decided to say something before the man changed his mind. 

"But, May can't-"

"Doesn't matter." Mr. Stark leaned forward, his eyes intense. "If you think I'm gonna let you go your merry way after what you did, if you think that I'm not even willing to shell out a couple thousand dollars for _this,_  you really must not know me. At all."

Peter edged back and averted his eyes. "May doesn't like charity," he mumbled.

Mr. Stark let out an exasperated sigh. "I don't give a shit what your aunt does or doesn't like. I'll deny saying that later, of course, but this is about you, Peter. Okay? This- this  _stunt_ of yours-"

"It was not a stunt!" 

Mr. Stark stared at him until he shut his mouth again.

"As I was saying," Mr. Stark continued pointedly, "your...situation, if you will, is not all that great for my continued well-being and is, in fact, very anxiety-inducing. If you won't accept that you need this - and believe me, you do - then at least accept the fact that I will literally not be able to sleep until I'm satisfied that I'm doing something to help."

Peter deflated. "I just...I'm scared. I don't want to tell her. Or anyone."

"I know." Mr. Stark's voice gentled. "But trust me, it gets easier every time you do it."

He leaned forward and squeezed Peter's shoulder. Then he stood, brushing off his pants. 

"Are you leaving?" 

"Sleeping on the floor's not exactly my style, kid." 

"Are...are you coming back?" 

Peter cursed himself for the vulnerability in his tone as soon as it came out. He dug his nails into his palm and turned his head away from Mr. Stark so he didn't have to see the man's response.

"Of course." The assurance in his tone made Peter want to cry. "I'll be here at noon tomorrow, alright? Get some sleep."

Peter nodded. "G'night, Mr. Stark."

"Haven't I told you, kid? It's Tony." He started towards the front door. "Goodnight, Peter."

The door clicked shut.

Peter lay back and stared up into nothing and thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp guys, unfortunately I don't have any life advice to give you this chapter. Instead, I'm gonna admit that I really just want to share something from my own life, because here is the only place I really can. 
> 
> Writing Tony and Ned from now on is...going to be really difficult. I'm sad to say that it's because I've never had anyone like them in my life. Like, seriously. Something I've realized in the past few weeks, courtesy of therapy, is that I've tried so hard to be understood and loved by the people in my life, but no one understands, and I'm not sure anyone cares enough to try. Peter's life may suck, but at least he has people who CARE. I don't.
> 
> This isn't to be some kinda 'uwu much angst' person. I'm not being dramatic, just depressingly realistic: my life is void of understanding and caring, and has been void for as long as I can remember. I feel like I must be the problem, somehow, for this to have happened. I'll be the first to admit that I isolate myself a lot and I can be moody, but like...is that all it takes for every single person in my life to fuck off and decide I'm not worth it? I guess so! Seems unfair to me, but I'm not the one who makes the rules!
> 
> But enough of that - I'm honestly so thankful that this fic has reached so many people, and seemingly impacted at least a handful of your lives positively. I hope that, even despite my difficulties with writing Tony and Ned, I'll be able to finish this for you, to give you hope for a better future.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say that working with paralysis in a story is a difficult topic and one that is hard to grasp properly. I've done some fairly extensive research into it, so I believe I have a good idea about how to write a character with it. However, this is all taken from people's accounts of their paralysis and what medical journals say. I don't have firsthand experience, so I may make mistakes. Please take that into account, and if you have constructive criticism, I will gladly take it.

Mr. Stark came back at noon the next day, like he'd promised. He wasn't alone. Next to him stood two strangers dressed in scrubs and wielding medical kits.

Ned answered the door silently. One they'd entered, he stepped back and seemed almost to fade into the background. He had dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders were sunken inwards with exhaustion. Peter didn't think any of them had slept well.

That thought was proven as Mr. Stark approached what had become Peter's couch. Peter saw the absolute exhaustion written in the lines around his eyes; the worried, cracked lips; the traces of salt he hadn't bothered to wipe from his cheeks. The whites of his eyes were streaked with uncomfortable red, and he carried himself with the stance of a man who was too worn out to fight any longer. He was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday: worn jeans and a t-shirt. They seemed uncomfortably casual for a billionaire. 

For a moment Peter felt offended that Mr. Stark should be affected so much by this. This was Peter'sdoing. This was Peter'ssuffering. This was Peter's penance for falling short for the thousandth time. Mr. Stark had no  _right..._

The two strangers stepped up to him and introduced themselves. The two doctors, for Peter knew what they must be, were both in their forties or fifties, one male and one female. They alone out of everyone else in the room looked put-together and calm, though the woman's black hair looked frazzled and the man's scrubs weren't buttoned properly. 

"Hello. Peter Parker, is it? It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Dr. Burrow." The female doctor extended a cordial hand and smile towards Peter.

Dr. Burrow's skin was as dark as her hair and contrasted with her white scrubs. She had a doctor's rigid posture and a doctor's bland pleasantness. Peter sniffed ever so slightly, as he'd begun to do ever since the bite. Her scent was clinical and sterile: she smelled of acetone and pre-packaged bandages.

Peter took her hand and gave a polite shake and response to her pleasantries. He repeated the same thing with the male doctor, who introduced himself as Dr. Bland. 

Dr. Bland, like his counterpart, lived up to the name. He was just pleasant enough to be personable, and just disinterested enough to be calming. He was pale, thin, and his graying brown hair was balding. His eyes were cool, objective, and sharp, and the hands that held his clipboard and medical supplies were thick-veined and strong. 

"Mr. Stark called us here in order to check you out," Dr. Bland said. "We're from the same facility that took Colonel Rhodes's case and helped him adjust to his prosthetic limbs. Both of us specialize in treating patients with superhuman abilities. Is it correct that you fall under this category?"

Peter hesitated, eyes flicking to Mr. Stark, who nodded. 

"Yeah, it- it is. I'm, um, I got bi- that is to say-" Peter blanched, wishing he were a better liar. He took a deep breath and started again. "I have enhanced reflexes, senses, metabolism, and regenerative abilities."  _There._ That sounded professional.

The female doctor gave a nod. "Is that all? We need to know what we're working with."

Peter glanced at Mr. Stark once more. He'd crossed his arms and had leveled Peter with a warning stare.  _If you don't tell them,_ it read,  _I will._

Peter gulped. "U-Uh, and super strength. I guess. And, and I can. Well. Stick to things."

"Oh," Dr. Burrow said nonchalantly, like this were a perfectly normal trait, "like a gecko?"

Abruptly, Peter imagined what it would've been like to have been bitten by a radioactive lizard. "Yeah, something like that."

"Well, let's get to it," Dr. Bland said. "We'll start with taking your blood pressure."

And so it began. Peter noticed they were very careful with him. They ever-so-gently strapped some sort of brace on his back - meant to stabilize him and prevent further injury, one of them explained. He also noticed they seemed upset, maybe even agitated. They kept glancing from Peter to Mr. Stark and back to each other. It was a few minutes in when one of them muttered something that Peter realized why they were upset: they were angry he hadn't been sent to the hospital immediately.

Well tough luck, Peter thought hotly. It was his damn body and his damn decision. He would not jeopardize his identity and the well-being of his friends and family just to get checked out a few hours sooner.

Even if...even though, now that reality was setting in, he wished they could've come to see him sooner. 

"Alright." Dr. Burrow nodded to herself and wrote something down on the clipboard she'd whipped up out of nowhere. "Your heart-rate is good, nice and low, blood pressure's low but normal for someone with your abilities. We're going to start with your injuries now. Are you injured anywhere besides the spine?"

Peter went to shake his head, then stopped. "Yeah, actually. I think my wrist is broken." It hurt like hell, a dull throbbing ache.

The male doctor stepped forward and took the proffered limb, examining it with critical eyes and prodding gently at it. Peter saw it had swollen up quite a bit. He winced as the doctor found a particularly sensitive spot.

"How quickly do you normally heal?" Dr. Bland asked.

"Uh...I'm not sure. It varies depending on the severity of the injury. I've never really kept track." Cue an angry glare from Mr. Stark. "But, I think I've broken something before. It was usable by the next day."

The doctors exchanged wry glances. "By usable," Dr. Burrow said, "exactly how much did it still hurt?"

"Um." Peter winced. "A lot?"

Mr. Stark's glare darkened.

"But it was fine within a week!" Peter said quickly. "It didn't even hurt, like,  _at all,_ by ten days."

The two doctors looked back at the wrist, their expressions unreadable. "Compared to that," Dr. Burrow said, "how does this feel?"

Peter hesitated. He hadn't really thought about it last night - hadn't  _wanted_ to think about any of that. But it didn't feel much better than it had last night.

"It...it feels the same, I think."

Dr. Burrow nodded contemplatively. "Okay. We'll get you some x-rays, both for that wrist and your spine. How would you say you're feeling mentally?"

That clinical, emotionless tone didn't change. Peter still bristled. "I'm fine," he said instantly.

"Peter." 

He felt a swell of irritation towards Mr. Stark, barely resisted the urge to glare at him. "Okay, I could be better. I..."

"If this makes it easier," Dr. Bland cut in calmly, "Mr. Stark has already informed us of the situation. We know how you injured yourself. Since we are specialists and not affiliated with the government, we can't force you into a mental hospital or anything of the sort. However, my colleague and I both have a theory as to your slow healing and your honest answers to our questions will make it much easier to treat you properly."

Somehow, the detached way with which he spoke made it easier to respond, instead of harder. Peter turned his eyes to the worn carpet. "I haven't really let myself think," he said quietly. "I don't want to."

There was an instinct inside him that warned him not to think. Thinking would destroy him.

The two doctors wrote on their clipboards. "And where would you say your current mental state is at?"

Peter's eyes flicked towards Mr. Stark, towards Ned who hovered awkwardly in the background. He didn't want to tell either of them what was going on in his head. He couldn't think of a particular reason why - maybe he was sick of feeling vulnerable. Regardless of the reason, he simply  _did not_ want them to know. He just didn't.

Seeing his glance, Dr. Burrow said, "Would you like them to leave? We want you to feel as comfortable as possible here."

Peter released a slow breath and wished she'd simply ordered them to go, rather than leave the decision up to him. He didn't want to tell them about his thoughts, but he didn't want to tell them to leave, either.

"Yeah, I guess," he muttered finally. "Sorry."

He looked up at Ned and Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark's expression was unreadable. Ned - Ned looked hurt. 

 _Look at that,_ his brain whispered.  _No wonder you're alone if all you ever do is hurt people._

Peter shook off the thought, opened his mouth to apologize again. But Ned shook his head. He knew Peter too well. 

"You don't need to apologize." He gave Peter a small but genuine smile. "We can talk about it later, right?"

Inside, Peter never wanted to talk about it again. His feelings were private, as were his thoughts. He'd gone so long without telling anyone about them. He'd isolated himself so much he didn't want to stop.

Outside, Peter returned Ned's smile. "Yeah, 'course."

A door clicked shut behind Ned and Mr. Stark. Peter let his gaze fall to the ground and waited for the doctors to resume their questioning.

They didn't disappoint. "Where would you say your current mental state is at?"

He released a breath. "It's okay, I guess. I..." he swallowed. Having to tell this to two perfect strangers was humiliating.

"There's no judgment here," Dr. Burrow said gently. "We want to help you. If it makes you feel better, you aren't the first person like this we've had to treat."

That made him feel both better and worse. "Like I said, I don't really want to...think. I feel kind of apathetic, I guess."

"That's not an unusual thing to be feeling right now," Dr. Burrow told him, still gentle. "Your mind is in a state of shock, trying to process what happened. Do you currently have any suicidal urges?"

"No." Even if he did, it wasn't like he'd  _say_ it. 

"Are you currently experiencing self-critical or guilty thoughts?"

The skin around Peter's eyes tightened. He considered lying, but he was tired of it. "Yes."

One of the doctors let out a sigh; Peter was still examining the carpet, so he didn't know which one.

Then Dr. Bland said, "From our experience in the field, we've seen how much a person's mental state can affect their body. There has been much research done on the correlation between the two, and it's pretty astonishing. Cancer patients who reported feeling confident, supported, and loved had a much higher survival rate than those who didn't, for instance. If a person believes they will get better, oftentimes they will."

He shuffled his clipboard and continued. "Obviously, our knowledge on superhuman powers is very limited. But doesn't it seem strange to you that a broken hand that would normally have shown noticeable improvement by now hasn't healed at all?"

Peter shrugged. "I mean, my body has bigger issues to deal with right now." 

"Yes, but the cells in your body don't work like that. Damaged cells immediately repair themselves, and cells in the area come to help. You don't have cells coming all the way from your hand or foot to help something in your stomach. For one thing, most of them aren't even the same type of cell. I think that the problem isn't that your body is so overwhelmed it can't heal anything. I think it simply isn't healing at all."

Well, wasn't that encouraging. 

Peter's voice most definitely didn't crack. "Wha- what do you mean?"

Dr. Bland leaned forward, his eyes alight with scientific eagerness. "This is just a hypothesis, of course, since we haven't even done tests on you yet. But, if there is a shown correlation for an elevated mental state helping non-enhanced humans recover from terminal illnesses, it should work doubly so for enhanced humans. After all, much of your mood is based off of receptors in your brain, which could help or hinder cells healing you. Your brain cells should be just as enhanced as the rest of your cells, so your mood should have an even higher impact on your physical well-being."

"So you're saying I won't heal physically until I can somehow what, defeat my depression? That's impossible!" Peter crossed his arms and glared at them. He began to wish Mr. Stark had never brought them here. "I can't just get better! I've already tried and failed with that!"

If the doctors were startled by his outburst, neither showed it. Dr. Bland said calmly, "It's not necessarily that you have to completely eliminate any changes in mood. Rather, it's that, if you spend enough time feeling absolutely horrible, it will begin to take a toll on you physically. Am I right in saying that you've been feeling this way for a while?"

Peter shrugged.

"And have you been healing slower, by any chance?"

He shrugged again.

"Here is what I suggest. Physical therapy and similar treatments should help you. Studies show that patients who persevere with physical therapy can even regain some of their previous muscular range and control. However, you're different because you heal super-humanly quick. We'll have to run some tests on you, but...it's possible that your body can regenerate the lost nerve cells and reconnect the neural pathways in your spine. Have you suffered any serious burns or lacerations?"

Peter nodded, trying to quell the rising excitement from hearing he might not be like this forever. "Yeah, a couple."

"I'm assuming the scar tissue is gone or mostly gone, yes?"

Another nod.

"Do you have all or most of your previous sensation in those areas, or can they no longer feel?"

Peter's eyes lit up. He ran his right hand down his left leg, where he'd had a pretty deep stab wound. The skin there felt just like any other - better, the skin there could  _feel_ just like any other part of him. "It's all there still. So that means my nerve cells can fully regenerate!"

Dr. Bland nodded contemplatively. "That's a promising sign. We'll still run tests, of course, but that's promising indeed. Here's our next problem: your body  _can_ heal completely. Why hasn't it yet? I believe it's because of what I said earlier. The neurotransmitters in your brain don't seem to be working properly. The most likely reason is that of a chemical imbalance in your brain. If you can change your mood..."

"Hang on," Peter said indignantly. "My mood is caused by that, not the other way around!" 

"Well, not necessarily," Dr. Burrow cut in. "It's always hard to identify the first aggressor with these things. Was it a traumatic incident that caused your brain to get imbalanced, or was it biologically imbalanced to start with and your mood followed suit? It doesn't really matter which, though, because the end result is the same. Your brain seems to be inhibiting your healing process. We can give you all the physical therapy in the world and it wouldn't matter. Nothing will happen unless  _you want_ it to. You have to want to get better, Peter." 

She looked straight into his eyes, a hint of compassion in her gaze. He understood that she wasn't just talking about his physical injury. He looked down. 

Did he want to get better? 

It should've been an easy answer - of course he did. But the more he thought about it, the less certain he was. First because the idea of being something else, becoming something different was exhausting. He would have to work to become better. Peter didn't think of himself as lazy - no, it was more that everything simply exhausted him. Even climbing out of bed some mornings was too much. 

(Or perhaps, his brain whispered, he _was_ lazy. Lazy and worthless and-)

(Shut up, he hissed back.)

Second, "better" was a fantasy, an unreality to Peter, something he couldn't even conceptualize. What did being better  _mean?_ Did it mean not being sad all the time? Did it mean being able to take his apathy and throw it in the garbage? Did it mean being able to encounter a trigger and walk away unbothered?

Peter didn't know who he was without his sadness. He didn't know who he was without the hollowness in his chest. He didn't know, he realized, who he was without his depression. He  _was_ his depression. Getting better meant his identity - however horrific it was - would be taken from him and he'd be left with nothing. Because he was nothing without it.

(Nothing, his brain muttered. You're  _nothing.)_

Third...Peter winced just to think about it, but forced himself to acknowledge the thought. If he weren't sad anymore, he'd have no reason to want the attention he so craved. The constant validation, the need for acknowledgement and respect...without depression, what reason did he have to want them, let alone get them? Attention was for people who needed it. Respect was for people who deserved it. No, he wasn't getting what he wanted, but at least he had a valid reason for wanting it.

Peter didn't want pity or flattery or falsity. He wanted intimacy and acknowledgement and understanding. He knew he didn't deserve any of it...but with depression, he  _needed_ help. He knew he did. If he were legitimately mentally ill, he should get attention. He wanted that attention. He wanted to be seen. If he got better, he would be a nobody. 

Just like he'd always been.

Peter looked up. The two doctors were looking at him expectantly. He gave a helpless shrug and said, "I'll- I'll think about it."

They nodded. "Very well. We'll set up our machines and run some tests on you. Please tell us once you've decided."

He looked down. "Alright."

And as they bustled around him, arranging him for their scans, drawing his blood for their tests, he only sat there numbly. He had been a nobody before, and if he got better, he'd be a nobody then. Was there really any hope, or was the end of the tunnel just as blackened as the rest of it?

He didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from my note at the beginning of the chapter, I'd like to say that this story is not about Peter being paralyzed. 
> 
> Yes, it's an important part of this. But this story is about Peter being alone and living with depression. I am using his paralysis in a few ways. First, it's to warn people of the consequences of attempting suicide. Suicide is not easy, it's not fun, and it doesn't end well no matter what. If you die, then you're dead - doesn't matter where you end up, you're still dead. If you live, you will most likely suffer long-term effects of whichever method you chose. In Peter's case, he got paralyzed. I mean no disrespect to those suffering under paralysis, which is why I have researched and labored to portray it as accurately as possible. You will see more of that in the next few chapters.
> 
> The second reason is drawing a parallel between depression and paralysis. I wanted to give Peter a physical manifestation of the helplessness he feels from his depression. Personally, depression makes me feel like I can't actually do stuff. I feel paralyzed mentally, like I can't make normal decisions or have normal interactions. The good news is that we CAN choose to get better with both. Studies show that patients who persevere through physical therapy actually show improvement of motion and sensation. In the same way, patients who undergo mental therapy show improvement as well. I'm not saying it's easy, I'm not saying it even works all the time - the paralyzed people are still paralyzed, and sometimes the depressed people are still depressed, if less so. But you do IMPROVE, you get better, and honestly...that seems to me like it's worth the effort.


End file.
